Don’t Ask By Natalie Bell Two years out of college, Julie Spencer is realizing that her life isn’t turning out exactly how she had hoped it would. After four years and $150,000, she has a college degree that hasn’t gotten her anything more than administrative work, and she’s stuck in some sort of love polygon that’s better suited to high school than adulthood. Greg, the man she’s been with for almost a year, is still in love with his ex, Chloe. The man perhaps she should be with, Duncan, lives six hours away, so she only sees him when he’s in town on business. And her friends aren’t any help. Tess is relationship-challenged, and Brian is in a long-distance, open relationship with a hook up buddy, and is—more than likely—also in love with Greg. Lost in a quarter-life crisis, Julie is just letting life take her where it will, while she tries to figure out exactly what she wants. But is putting off making a decision taking her just where she doesn’t want to go? Don’t Ask is the story of a new generation suffering from being caught somewhere along the edge of adulthood in a world that looks nothing like what their parents’ knew.
Chapter 1 Long Beach, CA I know he doesn’t always think of me when we’re in bed together. I mean, he would never say so. He might be selfish, and sometimes idiotic, but he’s never been mean. Honestly, everything would probably be easier for me if he were just plain mean. I can forgive his selfishness. I can forgive his periodic idiocy. Those at least border on understandable. It’s easy to be sympathetic with those. If he were just mean, I’m sure I would have washed my hands of this a long time ago. At least I’d like to believe that. Women stay in physically abusive relationships for whatever and however many reasons they come up with. Who says I wouldn’t stay with the man just because he was a little “mean” at points? After all, I’m not exactly the hardest person to manipulate in the world. He readjusts himself next to me on the small mattress. I attempt to accommodate him, moving to make sure that his arm is properly placed under my neck. I turn my head, as much as I can without undoing all the shifting, to look at him. “Am I killing your arm?” “Nah,” he says, flexing his hand once before letting it go limp again. Damn arms. They always get in the way. If only it didn’t feel so good to sleep pressed up against someone else. That’s the only reason we put up with all the shifting. All the odd angles we use to keep our arms from being dead in the morning. I’m sure I’d be much more well-rested if I slept at home, at my own place, in my unnecessarily big bed. But no, I’m willing to put up with Greg’s tossing and turning, and his occasional snoring, in his cramped double bed, just because it feels so good not to sleep alone. He shifts again, and I finally just let him slide his arm free. I move to my back, making sure that I’m at the very edge of the mattress so I’m not forcing him up against the wall. As much as he might deny the fact that
it’s uncomfortable to have his arm trapped under me, I never really believe him. I, personally, never try to stick my arm under him. But then again, I’m a girl. One of the main perks of being a girl is that you are, nine times out of ten, allowed to be on the inside of any cuddling, where limbs are much less cumbersome. It’s more feminine to be cuddled that be the cuddler. Now free, Greg moves to his back, resting his arm above his head— one of the few free spaces on the bed with us lying side to side. I look at him for a moment before becoming self-conscious. I jerk my head back straight, return to looking at the ceiling. Greg doesn’t notice. Greg isn’t stereotypically handsome by any stretch of the imagination. But, all the same, I have always found myself bizarrely attracted to him. Whatever quality he has that got me in bed in the first place has yet to fade. And I suppose that’s all that really matters. Greg is short, especially when compared to the rest of my dating history. He’s the same height as me. Perhaps even slightly shorter. It’s really hard to tell when he spends half his time slouching. And Greg, with brown eyes and brown hair, is a bit dark for me, given my affinity for blonds. He’s always worn his hair long from what I can tell. Only to his shoulders, but still long enough to get in the way when he’s over me. Overall, he was misnamed, I think. Greg. It always brings up the picture of some burly mechanic who lives for nothing more than to work with his hands on a busted carburetor or blown gasket. This Greg, my Greg, however, is anything but. If there could be an antithesis to that mechanic, I’m pretty sure this Greg would be it. Though he’s surprisingly strong for his stature, Greg is lean, scarily lean, his torso making a thin V that he can’t fill out no matter what he eats. And he’s so much more artsy than mechanical. Artsy right down to locking himself in his room for hours on end, refusing to talk to anyone, eating nothing but Doritos while he “creates.” Lord knows why I put up with the man. Well, other than the fact that I love him. God help me. The front door opens with a click, followed by the rustle of plastic bags, and then thumps as the cabinets in the kitchen—located about four
yards outside Greg’s bedroom—begin to open and close. Brian’s home. And from the sound of it, he went grocery shopping. Probably for the best. If Greg were left to his own devices, he’d eat nothing but In-N-Out, Taco Bell—both located conveniently in the shopping center across from their apartment building—and his darling Doritos. Or Tostitos, you know, when he felt the need to be adventurous. Groaning, Greg rolls over me, managing to lever himself out of bed with nothing more than a smooth blur of movement. He pulls his jeans on, somehow getting them up without tripping while walking. He has them zipped before he opens the door. I half listen to their conversation. At a distance, Greg and Brian sound scarily similar. For men that are so incredibly different, it’s more than a little disconcerting. Especially when I’ve only been sleeping with one of them. I shudder. Sleeping with Brian would be weird. I mean, it isn’t as though I’ve never spent the night in Brian’s room before, but sleeping next to him isn’t quite the same as sleeping with him. I don’t think Brian has ever even considered making a move on me, anyway. He’s probably afraid of The Wrath of Greg. Greg might not be in love with me—honestly I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s not in love with me—but I’ve still got a big stamp that says “Property of Greg” right across my forehead in this apartment. And I doubt Greg and Brian would have stayed friends quite as long as they have if they’d gotten into fights over girls. In the midst of the general rumble of male voices, I hear my name. Great. It’s always a wonderful sign when they’re talking about me. Especially when I’m in the next room. I push myself out of bed, much less lithely than Greg had managed, and pull on some combination of clothes that cover everything important. Taking the two steps it takes to get down the small “hallway”—which is really not much more than an alcove with three doors and a linen closet —I can hear what they are saying more clearly, but they are still out of sight, behind the wall that sections off the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. I toy with the idea of staying there. They aren’t quite as good with placing where people are from sounds as I am. And I move much more quietly than either of the men. They wouldn’t know I was there at
all, more than likely. It still feels awkward to be eavesdropping on them. Even if they’re hardly discussing state secrets. I move to the wooden table on the carpeted area on the other side of the front door that they call the “dining room.” Not that it’s actually a room. Standing by the table, I look at the men in the kitchen, who have yet to notice I’m no longer hidden away in Greg’s room. Unsurprisingly. They never notice anything. Every once in a while, when I see them together, I have to wonder why I didn’t end up with Brian to start with. He’s more “my type” after all. Again, he’s not stereotypically handsome, really more cute than anything, but he’s tall and blond, with blue eyes. Just like me. And, while he’s not exactly buff, he’s definitely more strongly built then Greg. No question. Even with the slight paunch he developed at some point over the summer, you can see the muscles in him. Brian spots me first. Again, unsurprisingly. “Hey, Jules. Didn’t know you were coming over.” I shrug, crossing my arms tight across my middle, smile at him. “I was in the area.” “Right,” Brian says, in the good-natured way of his. “Cool.” I readjust, placing my hands on the table, pulling them away quickly when I hit something sticky. I check my fingers. They seem unscathed, vaguely smell of beer. “Did you ever call that guy at the concert hall?” “Not yet.” “Supposedly they’re desperate for trumpet players.” I sniff my fingers quickly, confirming it’s beer, before looking back up at him. “They would probably pay you and everything.” “Pay money?” Brian raises an eyebrow, smiles. If Greg is the temperamental artist, Brian is an opposite there, too. Just as musically gifted, Brian has the easiest-going personality of anyone I know. He’s never locked himself away in his room with a bag of Doritos. And if he wasn’t easy going, why would he ever let me crash in his room when Greg got into one of his moods? Or when Greg disappeared somewhere. Or even when Greg just forgot I was coming over in general. And, God help me, he does that more often that I like to admit.
“Would still be a pittance, probably,” I say, “but yes, cash money from what I understand,” “I’ll definitely have to look back into it.” Brian nods. Greg pauses from rummaging around in the grocery bags, pulling out a hardy stalk of broccoli. He looks at it, furrows his eyebrows, then looks at Brian. “Really, man?” “Some of us actually eat vegetables.” Brian turns, taking the broccoli before brushing Greg away from the bags. “Are you going to stay for dinner, Jules?” “You planning on cooking something?” I test a new patch of the table, making sure beer wasn’t spilt there too, before hopping up onto it. It creaks slightly, but doesn’t threaten to break. It’s pretty sturdy when compared to the other furniture in Greg and Brian’s apartment, honestly. “I was thinking pasta primavera.” Brian motions with the broccoli still in his hand. “Hence the vegetables.” Greg snorts, already into a package of Oreos. “I wish I had your metabolism.” I shake my head, not expecting Greg to acknowledge me, and look back at Brian. “I’d love to stay if you have enough.” “Yeah, no problem,” Brian says. “Any way I can help?” I ask. “Yeah.” Brian casts a sidelong look at Greg. “Keep him out of the kitchen for an hour.” I can almost hear Greg rolling his eyes from the sound of his voice. “I’m not a fucking child, you realize?” “When was the last time you touched a stove?” Brian asks. “Probably the last time I had a craving for pasta primavera.” Greg palms a few more Oreos before turning around. He pauses, looks at me for a long moment. “Is that Brian’s shirt?” I look down at the blue T-shirt I had picked up in Greg’s bedroom. It’s big enough to be, but then again, Greg has a penchant for clothes that are too big for him. “I don’t know. It was on your floor.” “Didn’t want to put on your own clothes?” “That would require me figuring out where my shirt went.” I touch the pants I have on. “I found my shorts.”
Greg shakes his head, looks at Brian. “Did you get any beer?” “In the fridge.” Greg pulls it open, setting the Oreos down just long enough to get to the bottle opener on his key ring and pop the cap off. The cap clatters across the counter, and Greg leaves it there, ignoring the look Brian gives him. As always, Brian picks it up, tossing it out before turning back to his groceries. I’m not sure it would be possible to walk through the apartment without stepping on a bottle cap if it weren’t for Brian’s slightly anal tendencies. Greg slips his keys back away, picking up the Oreos with one hand and taking a drink from the bottle with the other. Honestly, I have to admit it’s sort of impressive that Greg’s keys managed to stay in his pocket with how quickly he got his pants off earlier. But then again, boys’ pockets have to be made differently than girls. They wouldn’t be able to carry nearly as much as they do if they were stuck with the little pockets they give us. Greg pauses, glances at Brian. “Want one, chef?” “Sure.” Brain sets to getting out his knives and pots, letting Greg go through the same process, putting the Oreos down, opening another beer, and setting it on the counter. The boys know better than to offer me any. After three years, and countless—what I’m sure are rather amusing—faces that I have made as they attempted to convince me there had to be a beer I’d like, they’ve thankfully given up trying to force any on me. “We’ve got some chardonnay, I think, if you want some, Jules.” Brian glances over his shoulder at me. “Sure,” I say. I’m not a huge fan of wine, either, but I can at least get it down. And having a glass is less awkward than just sitting there while they drink. Brian sets his knives in place, before moving to the cupboards to pull out a wine glass for me and a mug for himself. While Greg is perfectly happy drinking straight from the bottle, Brian would never consider it. It is a subject up for debate, if he would be able to drink at all if he didn’t have a set of proper glasses along with him. I smile slightly at the image of him on a desert island, refusing to drink a six-pack that he was
stranded with because there weren’t any glasses to be found. He remains to this day the only college student I have ever known to have a full set of wine glasses—for both red and white, of course—in his apartment. He pulls a nearly empty wine bottle from the fridge, filling the glass halfway before offering it to me. I thank him, letting him get back to his own drink. I glance at Greg. He has moved to the old beige couch in the living room, staring at the wall contemplatively for whatever reason. I’ve learned not to ask what’s on his mind when he’s staring off into the distance. If he’s to be believed, his mind is a blank slate when he stares at a wall. I remain sitting on the table, making the three of us into a right angle, me directly in line with the man on the couch and the behind the man in the kitchen. I take a sip of the wine, barely getting anything into my mouth before lowering it again. I should be able to get away with small tastes for a while, at least until I can work up the resolve to take a gulp, make it look like I’ve actually drunk something. Brian pauses, his glass almost to his lips. “Do you have something in your stomach, Jules?” I smile. “I’m fine.” He gives me a disbelieving look. “You think I’d be able to handle my liquor at this point, hanging around with your alcoholic asses.” I roll my eyes, taking another small sip. “You know I never really drank before senior year.” “So you’ve said,” Brian says. “And I’ve told you, it isn’t alcoholism in college, it’s ‘partying’.” “So what’s your excuse now?” However many Oreos Greg took are already gone. He brushes off his lap, standing and opening the front door. He pauses, looks at me. “Coming?” I look back at him. “Where are we going?” He motions with his head toward the kitchen. “I’m not allowed to smoke in here.” Brian’s eyes slide in Greg’s direction, though the wall must be hiding Greg from sight. Brian looks at me. I shrug, half to Brian, half to Greg. “Ok.”
The cigarettes are a new development. Sure, Greg had already smoked when I met him back in college, but it had never been cigarettes. Rather than any cologne or aftershave, I think the smell I have most associated with Greg is Febreze. If I had really known what pot smelled like before I had met Greg, I might have realized exactly what he was using the Febreze to cover up. But I suppose my childhood was just sheltered enough that I didn’t put two and two together. Pot’s only recently given way to cigarettes. I stand next to him in front of the apartment, resting my arms on the railing that lines the open-air hallway around the second-story apartments. Nearly subconsciously I’ve placed myself upwind as Greg pulls out a cigarette and tries to get his lighter to spark. He’s just beginning to get frustrated when it finally catches. He takes a drag, shakes the lighter. “Starting to get low.” Obviously smoking too much, I think but don’t say it. I feel Brian’s eyes on me through the window of the “dining room” where the blinds have been left just open enough to give a slotted view in and out of the apartment. I turn slightly, and he goes back to whatever he’s doing to prep dinner. Brian never smells like Febreze. Even after living with Greg for years and years. Most of the time, he smells like his cologne, Cool Water by David-whatever, or at least a close knockoff if he finds it on one of our trips down to the Fashion District. He generally can pick some up for five bucks from one of the stalls on the street that may or may not be licensed. And when Brian smokes, he doesn’t try to cover it. He only smokes when he’s celebrating, generally with some imported cigar or another. And then he wants people to know what he’s been smoking. He likes the smell of cigars. Apparently they aren’t nearly as “pedestrian” as cigarettes. “Brian’s watching us?” Greg asks without looking, taking a long drag before blowing the smoke over the courtyard. “Was.” I turn back around. “Has he been trying to get you to get me to stop smoking again?” “He knows better than to assume you listen to me,” I say. Greg shakes his head, still looking out over the apartments. “Tell him
it’s my first fucking cigarette today.” “I’ll be sure to.” I lean out a little over the railing, looking at the courtyard below us. The orange lights that turn on after dark are flickering on one by one. A few other twenty-somethings are around, semi-visible in the odd lighting. Two, with their own beer bottles, are sitting on a pair of folding chairs someone’s left out in the middle of the courtyard. Another girl, half-hidden by the overhang, is smoking at the far end near the gate that supposedly makes the complex “secure.” I look at her for just a little too long. Greg has gone out more than once to have a post-coital cigarette on me. He knows I don’t smoke. He’s never tried to convince me to smoke. But part of me can’t help but picture him with some girl, that girl maybe, sharing a cigarette, just because she’s that much better suited to him than I am. Like Chlo. I barely manage to hide the sigh that comes out. I don’t want Greg asking about it. Two years. It’s been two goddamn years, and I’m still comparing myself to Chloe Black. It’s only fair, I suppose. It’s been two years, and I’m more than willing to guess that Greg still compares me to her. I fight back whatever jealousy is trying to churn in my stomach. If I have nothing else to console me, at least I have the slightly comforting fact that Chlo’s seven and a half hours away, and has been with her new boyfriend for, well, two years now. “You all right?” Greg is looking at me. Impressive that he’s actually noticed I was off somewhere in my own thoughts. Though, he’s probably just noticed I haven’t said anything in a while. And it’s me. I’m not exactly known for silence. “Fine.” I smile at him. It feels a little tense to me, but I doubt he’ll be able to tell. He flicks the cigarette slightly, the ash at the end coming off and floating down over the railing. I watch the red ember turn grey, and then disappear into the darkness with more than a little trepidation. One day he’s going to catch something on fire. And being in Southern California, that could be a real problem. We aren’t exactly known for lacking dry, flammable brush, plants, and, you know, buildings.
“Are you staying the night?” he asks, taking another long drag on the cigarette. I shrug. “Hadn’t thought about it.” “I have to get up early,” he says. “Just so you know.” I raise an eyebrow. “Is that your way of saying ‘Julie, get out of my damn apartment’?” “No.” He rolls his eyes. “You know I wouldn’t say that. I’m just giving you fair warning.” Possible. Or he’s trying to kick me out and is too polite to say something like, “Julie, get out of my damn apartment.” Or, knowing him, “Julie, get the fuck out of my apartment.” I can’t read him. That makes my stomach flip more than thinking about Chloe Black. If he’s in one of his moods, it’s best I leave. If he’s not, he might really just be thinking about whatever he’s doing in the morning. Either is completely possible, and I don’t even know where to begin figuring out which is more probable. Things would be so much easier if Greg would just say what he meant once in a while. He takes a final drag, snuffs the cigarette out on the metal railing, and then flicks it into the courtyard. I don’t comment on the fact that there’s a trashcan within ten yards of us—not counting the one in his apartment— and turn to follow him back inside. I offer my help in the kitchen once again, and Brian, again, turns me down. I take my seat on the table, and Greg disappears into his room, returning a couple minutes later, smelling like Febreze.
About the Author Natalie Bell, a Southern California native, spends days working for a marketing firm, and nights typing away on her computer, working on her creative writing. She currently lives in Maryland with her amazingly-patient fiancĂŠ and endless array of house guests.