The Next Best Thing

My face was bright red, imprinted on the left side from the corduroy pillow on the couch. My right eye still had some grayish—green dried mud on the lid, which was preventing me from opening it all the way, sort of a stroke victim look going on there…Apparently, the aging mud mask had caused a rash, because my cheeks were red and bumpy. And my hair! Oh, Lord, my hair! Never cut your own hair while intoxicated…sure, now I remembered that particular rule. Seems so obvious, doesn’t it? Yet I’d done it, and it looked as if I’d run face—first into a lawn mower, my bangs choppy and irregular, the hair on the left side significantly shorter than the hair on the right.

Then I saw my arms. And my legs.

“No!” I wailed.

Brown and orange streaks covered my formerly white, white skin, except for the patches where the spray tanner had missed. I looked filthy, as if I’d been picking crops in the dust bowl. “No!” I moaned, slamming on the hot water and shoving a facecloth under the stream. I scrubbed the streaks violently, but no. Nothing changed, except my skin grew pinker under the fake tan.

That was it. I burst into tears. Pathetic, that’s what I was. A pathetic, drunken, smeary widow with orange skin, insane asylum hair and a rash. Insult to injury. Not only had God taken my Jimmy…He’d let me go on a White Russian bender while armed with scissors and tan—from—a-can! It was enough to make me an atheist.

“Come on, Lucy, it’s not that bad,” Ethan said from the other side of the bathroom door, his voice carefully controlled. “Seems like you just got a little…” He went silent, and I knew too well that he was laughing.

“Don’t,” I said, yanking open the door. Ethan was bent over, wheezing. I smacked him in the shoulder. “Look at me! This is ridiculous! This is what I get for trying to be fun!”

“Oh, I don’t know. This is pretty fun,” he managed to say.

How could he laugh? “You’re so mean, Ethan,” I sniffled.

“It’s just…you…your legs…and your hair…” He staggered back against the wall, rattling a picture, laughing so hard tears brightened his eyes.

“It’s not funny,” I wailed. “I’m older than Jimmy now, Ethan. I’m a widow, and I’m all alone and look at me! I should never have had those White Russians.”

“You think?” he asked, wiping his eyes.

I smacked him again, tears flooding my eyes, then turned away, hiccupping on a coffee—flavored sob. “I hate you.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he said. “Come on, now, honey, don’t cry.” He took my hand and led me to the living room, pulling me down next to him on the couch, where we’d logged so many hours together, watching movies or playing Extreme Racing USA. Fat Mikey jumped up, then, apparently horrified at how I looked, jumped back down and stalked into the kitchen, tail puffy with fear. Ethan patted my shoulder. “I’ll take you into Providence tomorrow for a good haircut. And the tan stuff will fade. Just, um, try a little Brillo. Maybe some Clorox.” That set him off again.

“You don’t get it, Ethan,” I said in a smaller voice. “I just feel so…I’m twenty—eight now. I’m older than Jimmy.” Swallowing, I looked down. For a second, I remembered Jimmy’s blue—green eyes smiling at me, and my heart broke all over again. “No one will ever love me like that again.” Dang, I was really crying now. So much for all fun, all the time.

“Oh, hey,” he said, his voice gentle. “You’ll be loved again, Lucy. The minute you’re ready. You’ll see.”

“I’m orange, Ethan,” I squeaked. “And it looks like my hair got caught in a fan.”

He bit down on a smile. “You’re gorgeous,” he said. “Even now, with all the, er, extras. You’d be gorgeous if you rolled in, I don’t know, pig entrails. Cow manure.” He handed me a tissue from the box on the coffee table.

“That’s so poetic. You should work for Hallmark,” I said, blowing my nose. Still, his words made my heart feel a little bit better.

“It’s true. You’re beautiful.” He smiled and reached out to touch my cheek.

“Thanks, Ethan,” I said, blinking in alcoholic gratitude. “You’re the best.”

“I thought you hated me,” he said, one eyebrow raising in that elvish way, a grin curling the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t. I was lying,” I answered.

“Just checking,” he said.

And then, quite out of the blue, he kissed me.

Ethan had kissed me before, of course. He’d been my friend since college, had been my brother—in—law, my protector and comforter, and he was Italian, and Italians kiss their relatives. So yes, Ethan had kissed me many times, on the cheek, as in Okay, gotta run, see you next weekend. But not like this.

This was just a gentle, warm press of lips. A sweet, almost innocent kiss after a long, long time of nothingness, and it was such a generous thing, that kiss, such an act of kindness, that my heart stopped in near—wonder. Then it was over, and Ethan pulled back an inch or two and looked at me. There were shards of gold in his brown eyes, and somehow I’d never noticed that. We stared at each other for a few heartbeats, barely breathing.

Without quite realizing it, I leaned forward, closing the distance between us. Ethan’s lips were so soft and full and warm, achingly wonderful. There was the soft, bristly scrape of his three—days beard against my face, the cool silkiness of his hair under my fingers.

The kiss deepened, a little less soft, a little more…meaningful. Ethan shifted, cupped my head in his hands. His tongue brushed mine, and that was it. I lurched against him, gripped a fistful of his shirt in one hand, his skin hot through the fabric. A little sound came from the back of my throat, and the way he tasted and felt made me feel dizzy, because it was so, so good to be touched, and held, and kissed again. God, I missed kissing.

And much to my surprise, I found that I liked kissing Ethan. Very much. It could be said, in fact, that (A) I was starving and (B) he was a buffet, because I’d (C) crawled on top of him, had his head clamped between my hands and was kissing the stuffing out him.

Of course, I’d imagined kissing someone since Jimmy died. Someone who was Not—Jimmy…imagined how I’d feel and how difficult and sad it would be. How I’d compare the two men, Jimmy and Not—Jimmy, and I’d find Jimmy so superior and then wallow in self—pity for my poor widowed self.

Somehow, I wasn’t thinking those things now. Later, it would occur to me that I hadn’t thought about Jimmy at all, not in the way I’d imagined I would. I hadn’t forgotten about him, of course…he was part of me, and so thoughts like, Jimmy’s robe is slipping flashed here and there. But they were interspersed with other thoughts…Oh, God, that feels good, don’t stop