Rexanne Becnel - Old Boyfriends

“You’ll worry anyway, so I say we go see her. Okay, Cat?”

“Okay with me. We can go to the club where she works. Maybe I can pick up some young studly college boy. I’ve been thinking that what I need is a trophy husband.”

M.J. laughed. “Sorry, darling, but it doesn’t work that way. Trophy husbands are old and wrinkled and very, very rich.”

“Like Frank.”

“Like good old Frank.”

“Is that what you want again, M.J?” I asked. “A trophy husband?”

“I think she should hook up with Mr. Football,” Cat said. “What was his name?”

“Jeff Cole.” M.J. smiled and hugged her knees. Damn, but that girl was limber. “Wouldn’t that be great if my first real boyfriend was rich and still available?”

“We should try to find out,” Cat said. “Bitsey gets to meet up with Eddie at her reunion. You could call Mr. Football.”

“And what about you?” she asked. “Are you going to look up Mr. Stick in the Mud?”

“Matt,” Cat said. “Sheriff Matt Blanchard, according to one of my mother’s infrequent Christmas cards.”

“He’s a sheriff?”

“Of my old hometown. Mais, I tol’ you, he’s a good ol’ boy,” she said, slipping into a thick Cajun accent. “He prob’ly has a passel of kids by now, cher, an’ a kennel of hunting dogs, an’ a gun rack in his pickup truck.”

“I bet he chews tobacco,” M.J. said.

“And has a beer belly,” I put in.

“And hates uppity women,” Cat said. “Maybe I will look him up, just to be mean.”

From the back seat I considered just what we were doing in M.J.’s semistolen Jaguar on our way cross-country to New Orleans. I was going to my high school reunion because I wanted to see Eddie. I couldn’t explain why. I’m happily married, although I’m not so sure my husband is. The fact remained, however, that I wasn’t in the market for another man. But M.J. and Cat, my two very best friends, could each use a decent guy in their lives.

I unfastened my seat belt and scooted forward so that my head was even with theirs. “Listen to us,” I said. “We’ve all admitted that we have these unresolved relationships with our old boyfriends. Maybe there’s a reason we’re making this trip together. Maybe we’re supposed to resolve them. You and Jeff.” I squeezed M.J.’s shoulder. “And you and Matt.”

Cat fixed me with a narrow gaze. “And you and Eddie?”

I sat back. “Maybe.”

“You would cheat on your husband?” M.J. asked.

“I didn’t say that. God, you have your minds in the gutter. What I’m saying is that things are not…wonderful between me and Jack. I just need some perspective.”

“I say go for it,” Cat said.

“I will if you will,” I said right back.

M.J. frowned. “I don’t know if Jeff is even in New Orleans.”

I grinned. “I bet Margaret can find out for us.”

“Margaret?”

“The Internet. If he was a football player and later a coach, she can probably find out where he is now.”

“Maybe there will be something about the good sheriff, too,” Cat said. “And Eddie Dusson.”

It was decided then. Ahead of us the southern tail of the Rockies formed a jagged line on the horizon. But we would be driving over them and through them, and at the end of our journey we would find the girls we used to be—and maybe the boys we once upon a time loved.

Mary Jo

B ig breasts can be such a curse. They attract attention from everyone, good attention and bad.

Please, don’t misunderstand. I’m not naive enough to believe mine weren’t directly involved in my husband’s interest in me. The odd thing, however, is that Frank was most fascinated by the fact that my breasts were real. Apparently his first wife’s enhancement procedure was the beginning of the end for them. Why couldn’t life be simple? he used to always ask. So I made it my goal to keep his life simple and pure, first as his employee, then as his wife. Bottled water, organic food, nothing synthetic in his clothing.

Except for his children and our lack of children together, I would have described our marriage as perfect. We were in balance, each with our own area of responsibility. Frank made the big decisions and paid for everything; I made all the small decisions and kept our life calm and organized. But then he died.

Even more drastic than Frank’s actual death was the way he died. It made our entire life together a lie—messy, complicated and nasty.

How could he want a man pretending to be a woman, when he had me, real breasts and all?

Thank God for Cat and Bitsey. Those two saved me, and I mean that literally. I don’t know what I would do without them, my Grits sisters. And now here we were, cruising through the desert with Cindy Lauper blaring from a Phoenix radio station.

Funny as it seems, my enthusiasm for this trip slipped a bit when we first started off this morning. I was leaving California for good. I knew it and I wasn’t really sorry. But I didn’t know where I was supposed to go, or what I was supposed to do.

Then we were pulled over for speeding, and for some reason that changed everything. It sounds ridiculous, but when that cute lesbian cop gave me the once-over, it gave me just the boost I needed. Not that I’m interested in women sexually; men are definitely my first choice. But I realized then that no matter the stumbling blocks thrown at me, I can find a way through—at least as long as Cat and Bitsey are on my side. I promised not to speed anymore, the cop let us go, and we were on our way. Best of all, I was back to feeling great.

The sky had begun to turn coral, aqua and rose in the rearview mirror when we exited I-10.

“My butt is numb,” Cat muttered, shifting in her seat. “Just find the nearest hotel and let me out of here.”

I had visions of a Motel Six. “There must be a Sheraton or Doubletree here. They usually have great spas.”

“How about a Marriott?” Bitsey asked, pointing to a billboard. We followed the signs to the Marriott and within a half hour we were checked in, with Cat and Bitsey fighting for first dibs on the shower.

“But what about our workout?” I asked Bitsey.

“Not today, M.J. Please? I’m just too worn-out for any workout more strenuous than searching for a restaurant. But I promise to be a good girl about it tomorrow.”

“Yeah, M.J. You’re on vacation,” Cat said, taking advantage of Bitsey’s preoccupation with me to slip past her and into the bathroom. “What do you say we play first—and play later?”

“Fine.” I shouldn’t have been annoyed, but the idea of helping Bitsey get in shape had become a real challenge to me. A mission. And now she wasn’t cooperating. “While you two freshen up here, I’ll get in a couple of miles on the bike. You’ll be sorry,” I added to Bitsey, “When I can have a drink—”

I broke off when she raised her eyebrows sternly at me. “Okay. Okay, Mother,” I amended. “You’ll be sorry when I can have dessert and you can’t.” I flounced out, but by the time I reached the elevator I was already reconsidering my behavior. Not the exercising, but the flouncing. How old was I anyway?

An hour and a half later we were dressed and out the door, looking pretty good, if I do say so, and ready to take on Tempe.

“Where does Margaret live?” Cat asked Bitsey.

“I have the address in my wallet. But she’s probably not there.”

“So where’s this bar she works at?”

The waitress at the restaurant gave us directions to it, and we decided to go.

Tavernous was nothing like what we expected. The neighborhood was seedy, the building listed drunkenly to the left as if it were about to collapse, and the windows were papered over with posters for bands and music shows. The bouncer, a hairy-chested behemoth with one gold tooth and a shaved head, carded me.