Ororo stumbled out the bedroom, cursing whatever deity thought it was funny to blind people first thing in the morning with something as bright as the sun. After somehow managing to use the bathroom without falling onto the floor, she worked her way to the living room”half-stumbling into the walls for her effort”where Jean was already hard at work on some project or another and Betsy was laid out on the couch still sporting last night’s half-polyester blend splendor”in a shade that matched her bangs nonetheless.
Ororo pushed Betsy’s leg over, despite the muttered protest. She never understood what Betsy said first thing in the morning, anyway. Her accent had a way of thickening to unintelligible proportions. Warble, Warble, Warble was all Ororo heard in varying degrees of tonal intensity. She could only make out the random angry “arse” and “shite,” as she continued to make room on the sofa. She fell into the spot she made, dropped her head against Betsy’s thigh, and let out a labored moan. “Coffee!” Ororo whined.
“Stat!” Betsy added.
Jean had long accepted the task of being the official coffee fetcher. Her partying days ended the day she met Scott Summers because she knew he was the one. She made a great show of going out of her way when she was working on a report that had to be finished by Monday. “If Charles fires me, I know you two will take care of me,” she said loudly from the kitchen.
Betsy and Ororo knew Jean’s job was important to her, and they even teased her for being a bit of an overachiever when it came to her work at Xavier Medi-Labs. They weren’t quite sure what she did there. Most of the words Jean used to describe her job went right over their head. All they knew is that she didn’t test on animals, and the bunnies of the world rejoiced.
“Jean, love, you know we’d do anything for you.” Betsy crooned while Ororo echoed her sentiments. They’d do anything for coffee was much more like it. They sat up reluctantly when Jean walked back into the room and placed two mugs on the table in front of them”sweet reprieve in a Dilbert mug.
“You two should really settle down,” Jean said, as she took her place back at the computer. “All these late nights will catch up with you. You need some kind of stability in your lives.”
“You mean with someone like Scott, of course.” Ororo said, smirking behind Jean’s head. Jean Grey was like apple pie, baseball, Chevrolet”the living, breathing icon of Americana. With her wide green eyes and flaming red hair, she was the good girl who lived next door to virtually every person in suburban American. Of course, she had the “perfect” relationship with the “perfect” man.
Jean turned away from the computer for a second to look at both of them with the stern gaze of a mother hen. “And why not?” she asked, turning back to the computer screen, pecking away at the keyboard in that precise manner she had about her. Betsy opened her mouth wide, clutching her throat pretending to gag. Jean never tired of telling them why Scott Summers”and any horde of men like him”would make the “perfect” husband.
“He’s dependable, financially secure, and grounded. He knows what he wants out of life. You two could use a man like him in your lives.” Jean said, the click-clicking of the keyboard keys accenting her words.
“You forgot to add that Scott is boring and anal and controlling.” Betsy said in her smooth English accent, ticking off her fingers. “I bet you two can’t even have sex without him barking out commands. On your knees, Grey, you know how I like it. What exactly do Scott and you do, anyway? Get hot and horny over a game of Parcheesi?”
Ororo tried to bite back a giggle as Jean turned toward them again, her face a light shade of red. Betsy never let Jean live down the time that Scott had invited them all over to his house to meet a couple of his colleagues for a game of Parcheesi. Ororo tried to pretend the night wasn't a total disaster, but Betsy wasn’t quite as kind. Betsy grabbed Ororo’s arm in feigned passion. “Talk nerdy to me, Ororo,” she said in a breathless sigh, placing her free hand over heart.
“Make all the jokes you want, Elizabeth. We’re not teenagers, anymore. It’s time out for games, and that’s what you two are doing”playing games. This is a crucial time in our lives, ladies. We should be thinking about marriage and starting a family, not partying and hooker heels,” she said, pointedly looking at the four inch stilettos Betsy left lying in the middle of the floor. “Scott has a couple of nice friends””
Ororo and Betsy exchanged looks as Betsy cut Jean off. “No, thank you. I’ll pass. I like my men with a little personality and abs made for licking. Trust funds optional. I’m not playing for keeps.” Jean graced Betsy with a withering glance before turning her green eyes to Ororo.
“Jean, don’t take this personally, but I still remember what happened the last time you tried to hook me up with one of Scott’s friends.” Ororo said, choosing gentler words than Betsy had. She was not about to spend another night listening to another lawyer type ramble about a high profile case he was heading. “Besides, I’m entitled to a little fun. I spent most of last year planning a wedding that fizzled and died.”
Last year around this time, she’d been engaged with her heart wide open and thoughts of happily ever after dancing in her head. She wasn’t looking for that again; she just wanted to have a little fun”preferably all night long and twice on Sundays. She didn’t care about ticking biological clocks that threatened to go off like time bombs (as Jean often liked to mention in her diatribes). She didn’t care that she may “pass her prime””another of Jean’s favorite points”before she found that so-called Mr. Right.
“It isn’t bad enough that my grandmother is trying to hook me up with her neighbor’s grandson? You have to try to set me up with a man, too?” Ororo said, picking up her mug and taking another sip of the coffee. It was perfect with a dash of cream and two sugars. Jean really did know her.
“Oh, c’mon, Ororo.”
“Did you forget that I’m sort of dating Keiron?” She hadn’t told Jean about the break up, and she was trying to hold off as long as possible since Jean never thought it would last anyway. And if there was one thing Jean liked more than Scott, it was being right.
“No, I didn’t forget that you were sort of sleeping with him. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling. I’ve known you since we were kids. I know the difference between your ‘I’m-in-love’ look and you’re ‘I’m-in-lust’ look.” She gave Ororo a looked that begged her not to insult her intelligence. Damn, what did everyone else see in her relationship with Keiron that made them know it wouldn’t last?
Jean had some sick fascination with seeing her married off. She thought the thought might obsess Jean more than her own August wedding plans. Maybe Jean thought if she found Ororo a man quick enough, they could still have that double wedding they’d been planning since they were kids. It wasn’t that she was turned off to the idea of getting married; she just hadn’t found anyone she thought was worth pursuing more than a casual relationship with. Honestly, she wasn’t looking that hard.
It was too much work to throw herself in a relationship where she gave all of herself while the other only half-committed himself to the relationship. With her, it was always all or nothing. Either she had fun or she was completely serious about the relationship. There was rarely a middle ground. Her grandmother always told her that love would find her instead of the other way around. She was testing that theory out. That didn’t mean she had to give up fun, though. A girl had needs, after all.
“Girl, I love you, but I’m not letting you do that to me again. The last time I let you set me up with one of Scott’s friends, he referred to my vagina as a Schmuckkästchen.” Ororo said, struggling with the unfamiliar word. “I don’t even know what that is. Now, I like dirty talk as much as the next woman, but if he’s going to talk dirty to me, he could at least do it in English.”
“That was far from dirty, Ororo. It’s German for jewel box.” Jean informed her as if that made it all better.
“Why in the world would he call it a jewel box? Did he hope I’d invite him to go digging for treasure?” Ororo said, looking absolutely perplexed.
“See, there you go. Only one of Scott’s friends would call your cunt a jewel box.” Betsy laughed.
“Like cunt,” Jean’s voice lowered to a whisper when she said the word “cunt”, giving Betsy a stern look as if Betsy had forced her hand, “is any better?”
“Oh, sod off, Scott… I mean, Jean.” Betsy said kindly.
Ororo tuned the two out as they began to squabble, which always inevitably happened between them. Betsy complained that Scott made Jean dull, and Jean complained that Betsy was too much of a libertine. It was always the same old tit for tat. The only thing that kept them from tearing each other’s throats out was the sisterly love they shared… or maybe it was the fact that if one killed the other, the victor would be left with more rent to pay in their overpriced townhouse. No, it was definitely the sisterly love.
Their arguments always ended the same way. One would best the other, and the other, unable to think of a witty retort in her anger, would stomp to her room and slam the door. Never the one to be bested in anything, the victor would stomp to her room as well, screaming a terse “Fine!” before slamming her own door. In return, the other woman would open her door and throw an equally as brusque “Fine!” to slap the door and slam her own again. Minutes later, it would be all tears and chocolate. “Let’s never fight again,” one would say. “Never!” the other would promise. They’d stick to that until the next tiff came a’knocking.
Ororo decided to leave them at it. By the time she finished her cooling cup of coffee and took a nice hot shower, they’d be at an impasse, and she’d be just in time for chocolate covered cherries and Betsy’s amaretto tea that she liked to serve topped with whip cream in pousse-café glasses. Now that was what teatime was all about. She could already hear Jean-Paul’s voice niggling at the surface of her conscience. No alcohol before the competition. There would be plenty of time for kicks afterwards. Jean-Paul was no fun on competition day. She promised her grandmother that she would stop by before the competition to meet Mrs. Howlett’s grandson, anyway, so it was best to lay off the liquor.
Logan heard his grandmother’s doorbell ring while he raided the fridge, looking for anything that he could he eat. After taking a survey of the contents, he decided on a turkey sandwich”quick and simple. He’d have to remember to go grocery shopping or he was going to starve to death. Better yet, he’d get his grandmother to grocery shop for him. She was good at the kind of thing, and she didn’t seem to mind doing it.
“Come in,” he heard his grandmother say. The door squeaked as it opened. He would have to fix that for her. Personally, he wished that she would’ve just stayed in the house that she’d shared with paw-paw, but she was stubborn and being old only made her even more stubborn. He still hadn’t told her that he was the one who’d bought the old house. His grandfather and his father had grown up in that house”not to mention him. He couldn’t just let it go. She hadn’t wanted to hear that it was full of memories.
“Hello, Mrs. Howlett,” the voice tinkered, tickling his ears lightly. She softened the “H” in Howlett dramatically, and he pictured pert lips wrapping around the letter. “My grandmother hasn’t cheated you out your pension, yet, has she?”
“Oh no, dear, Evie is always good company. How are you?” his grandmother said amicably. He could already see her petting the seat beside her, inviting Mrs. Munroe’s granddaughter to have seat.
“I’m good. Nervous but good,” she said with a throaty chuckled”a rich, rounded sound. He tried to picture the kind of woman that would go along with the laugh. Nothing seemed to quite fit. Mrs. Munroe had told him that her granddaughter was all legs. And she was a dancer so that meant she had nice legs. He always was a sucker for a nice pair of legs. “Where are my manners? This is my friend Betsy Braddock. Betsy, this is Mrs. Howlett.”
“Hullo,” he heard a sultry English voice say. Not bad, he decided, hoping the face matched the voice. He liked accents. His first serious girlfriend, Marisol, had a Spanish accent that use to set his blood on fire. Whatever happened to her? Oh yeah, his ex-friend”that’s what happened. Couldn’t trust a girl with an accent, this same ex-friend told him. Guess he was right.
“Gram, why are you looking at me like that?” Ororo again.
“What have I told you about those shorts? And girl, that shirt is one step from being indecent. That’s not even a shirt. That’s underwear.” Mrs. Munroe said disapprovingly. He wondered if she said it with the same scrunched expression she used with him when he told her he wasn’t married”and he wasn’t looking to get married either.
“I told her the same thing, Gram. ‘Wear something sensible,’ I said. She doesn’t listen, though. That boyfriend of hers has her dressing like a tart.” Betsy said with an exaggerated tsk.
“Betsy!” Ororo said, sounding a little betrayed. If he had any intention of joining them, that was all shot to hell, now. There was too much estrogen in that room. He pulled a chair from the dining room and sat down in the kitchen, taking a bite of his sandwich, replete with enough mayo to cause ten heart attacks.
“Leave the girl alone, Evie. If you were her age, you would wear the same thing,” his grandmother said jokingly.
“Hush your mouth.” Mrs. Munroe said with a chuckle. And that settled that.
His grandmother had always been good at smoothing ruffled feathers, even if she was too nosy and meddlesome for her own good. He hadn’t told her about the big break up he’d had with his girlfriend, yet. She’d been trying to get him to get rid of the “fake-baked” bitch, whose hair color was imported straight from Revlon, for nearly a year. And his parents wondered where he got his lack of tact from.
“You just have to meet my grandson,” he heard his grandmother say. He should’ve taken that as a sign to hit the bricks, but he was curious, even if it meant only looking at her legs for a few minutes before finding an excuse to be elsewhere.
Mrs. Munroe’s granddaughter could do no wrong in his grandmother’s eyes. That’s how he knew she would be all wrong for him. He loved his grandmother, respected her opinion, but she was intrusive. The women she liked tended to be too dull, anyway. They were often pretty, but they lacked any real personality. However, to make his grandmother happy, he took them out and then told her they’d given it up on the first date; and that was the end of that woman. His grandmother didn’t like”as Betsy put it”tarts.
He sauntered into the room when she called him, hoping they’d get this over soon. He saw two women standing not too far from the sofa his grandmother occupied. “Logan, this is Evie’s granddaughter, Ororo. Ororo, this is my grandson, Logan,” his grandmother said, pointing at them respectively. Then, everyone fell silent, and he could feel his grandmother’s eagle eyes on him. They were waiting for something. The old biddies thought they were smart.
He gave her the obligatory sweep and decided he liked what he saw.
Nice classic bone structure, a full, kissable mouth that looked like a pout without meaning to, dramatic blue eyes framed by long lashes. She was tall, but she knew how to work her height with a dancer’s grace. And she had on the kind of shorts that made him want to tilt his head for a better look, but his grandmother would kill him. Kill him dead! She often cackled as if there were degrees of death.
There ought to be a rule that allowed him to tilt his head when women with long legs wore teeny-weeny, slut-red shorts. What were those kind of shorts for if they weren’t made for him to stare at? But that shirt really took the cake. It was more like one of those corset things”a sheer, little something that really put some extra “umph” in her breasts. If he were standing just a little closer, he’d have a hard time not looking. He was at a favorable distance, though. He could look at her breasts, and she couldn’t really tell if he was looking at her breasts or not.
But wow, that hair was fashionably awful, though”one of those disruptive styles that everyone seemed to favor these days. The color was nice, did wonders against her skin, but that style”awful. What happened to a nice, clean haircut? Who was he kidding? His hair was often on the bad side of wild, but that wasn’t his fault. His parents had given him all the fucked up genes”specifically shortness and hair that never wanted to cooperate. But despite the hair, she would make a nice high fashion model. He knew this because his last girlfriend knew this. She was a fashion designer.
“Nice to meet you,” she said with a shrug. He wasn’t too bad on the eyes. He was a little rough around the edges. Sort of shorter than she liked her men being that she was tall. He had facial hair than she tended to favor. Did he get his hair cut by the same person who’d cut hers? She liked his eyes. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were laughing. Good thing someone else found this amusing. And even though he wore a plain white tee and jeans that could’ve been tight if he let them stay in the dryer a second too long, she saw mountains of nice, hard muscles. She definitely liked muscles.
“Yeah,” he said. Obviously, she wasn’t interested either. Well, he couldn’t let her think she was more uninterested than he was, so he gave her an equally as noncommittal shrug. He was the master of the one-word answer.
Suddenly, Ororo grabbed the woman standing beside her, pulling her closer. The woman let out a sound akin to protest while she hastily pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She was only slightly shorter than Ororo and had a shock of purple bangs. One of her parents had to be Asian”probably her mom since her last name was very non-Asian. She wore a very simple suit that looked professional.
“This is my friend, Betsy. She’s a photographer. She’s single. In fact, she was going to ask you to accompany her to my dance competition.” Ororo said, stressing the word single. He heard Ororo’s grandmother choke on her water, as Ororo pushed Betsy in his direction.
“I was?” Betsy asked, looking at him with wide eyes. Then, she turned her eyes to Ororo. “I don’t even know this man, Ororo.”
“Sure you do. This is the nice grandson that my grandmother mentioned. That’s never stopped you before, Bets.” Ororo said in a sickly-sweet voice. His grandmother thought it was a marvelous idea”so did Ororo’s grandmother. He was going to decline, but his grandmother shot him a hellfire and brimstone.
An hour later, he found himself putting on an Armani suit that his grandmother said “the witch” left last time she stopped by. He was frustrated. He didn’t like suits anyway. Good thing these ladies were cute.
What was it again? The wide end should go a foot across the narrow end”or was that the wide end”of the narrow part. Why were there so many narrow parts? And was he supposed to bring the wide part up or was he supposed to cross it over the narrow part first…or was that the other way around? “GRANDMA!” Logan’s voice boomed throughout the house.
“Boy, you’re gonna wake the dead!” his grandmother complained as she entered the bedroom door. “What’s wrong with you?”
He jerked the tie from his neck and handed it to her. “I ain’t wearin’ that. In fact,” he started unbuttoning the crisp shirt, “I ain’t goin’ at all.”
She walked over to him, and looped the tie back around his neck. “Of course, you’re going,” she said in a voice that said brimmed with “don’t-fuck-with-grandma.”
“Look, sweetie. The big bunny ear goes across the little bunny ear, just like this,” his grandma started singing, adding a little rhythmic nod of her head. “Then the big bunny ear goes through the loop””
“C’mon, Granny, don’t do the bunny ears song. Ya make me feel stupid.”
“Nonsense, I’ve been teaching the Howlett men to tie their own ties with the bunny song for decades.” She actually had the nerve to sound offended that he didn’t want to hear the bunny song.
“Mercy,” he pleaded.
“Only if you answer me this. What did you think of Evie’s granddaughter?” His grandmother said with a sly smile.
What did he think of Ororo? She was hot. He’d definitely do her. He wondered what zip code those legs were in. And what exactly did she wear under those little red shorts? And what were her thoughts on threesomes because he had some ideas he’d like to share with her and her friend Betsy. But he couldn’t tell his grandmother any of those things. She’d kill him dead.
“The big bunny ear goes across the little bunny ear, just like this…” he started singing.
