A Little More Than Convenient

|Carmen Remington|
“What’s the difference between lemon and pine?” I asked Jessica that day at Wal-Mart.
She smacked her right hand to her forehead and groaned. Then she patted my shoulder. “You have much to learn, my child.”
I ignored her and dropped the lemon Pledge into the buggy.
Just yesterday, Trent had told me that I would be cooking dinner for our families on Thanksgiving.
“Trent!” I’d exclaimed, “I can barely make Ramen noodles, let alone a whole freaking Thanksgiving dinner!”
He blew out air. “Okay, I know I should’ve asked you first. But, my mom more or less arranged this.” 
 I frowned and said, “Okay, I can live with that, but why would you wait until now to inform of it?”
He shrugged. “It kind of slipped my mind, what with the promotion and the dinners and the planning and all.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes, but not from sighing. “Fine. But I’m getting the whole week off.”
He’d raised his eyebrows at that one. “Excuse me?”
“I’m gonna need the whole week to cook and clean. Especially since my parents are coming.”
He buried his face in his hands and said, “All right, do whatever you need to. Consider this an apology.”
I nodded and said, “Good idea.”
Which explained why I was at Wal-Mart comparing furniture polish scents with Jessica.
“What else do I need?” I asked.
“Window cleaner?” she offered.
“We don’t have that,” I said, locating the Windex, the buggy’s wheels squeaking with every move.
“Do you have anyyy cleaning stuff?” she asked, holding out the y.
I thought for a moment. “We have a mop, and a broom,” I said thoughtfully, “and some rags and sponges.”
She made a face and began to grab things and throw them into the buggy. Disinfectants, fresheners, bleaches, shiners, polishers, mops, brooms, dustpans, you name it, she got it.
“What’s wrong, Jess?” I asked. “Do I really need all this junk?”
She nodded and took a package off of a shelf and dropped it into the buggy. “That apartment must be dee-sgust-iiing,” she held out the syllables.
I crinkled my nose and then brightened. “You mean, you’re gonna help me?”
“Nope,” she dropped Lysol into the buggy. “You’re gonna do this yourself. I’m merely informing you. You’re a wife now, Carm, you’re gonna have to learn how to clean. Take that feminists!” she exclaimed.
Jess hates feminists. Not that she thinks men are better than women, because she certainly doesn’t. I can remember her cussing her uncle out when he made a slight comment about her aunt’s authority in the house. And if she couldn’t vote, I would expect the courthouse to be burnt down. No, it’s the feminists that believe that men should stay home more and women need jobs, and maybe it’s time to start having babies, blah, blah, blah stuff. She believes that women are supposed to be mothers, even if they have a job. And furthermore, she strongly believes in adoption. She cays that she’ll never have a biological child, which is good because she’s not good with physical discomfort.
My buggy was now more than halfway full. “Jess, you never did tell me how you got off of work.”
She shrugged. “I got Sherm to cover me all week.”
Sherm, short for Sherman, is Jessica’s colleague. He has a huge crush on her, and she uses it to her advantage, which is honestly very rude of her. She has him wrapped around her little finger. I swear, if she asked him to make her something out of rattlesnake scales and a scorpion’s stinger, he’d do it. And apparently, she’s the only one who calls him Sherm.
“You know, Jess, one day he might actually see through your fake ass.”
She glared at me. “You think I’m fake? Thanks! That’s been my goal all along,” she sang.
I rolled my eyes. “Essica-jay, ou-yay nnoy-ay e-may.”
She stared at me. “What the hell?
I shrugged. “It figures.
We walked toward the supermarket portion of the store and she placed her hands on her hips. “What figures?”
“That you don’t understand pig Latin.”
“Carmen, we’re not pigs and we don’t speak Latin. We’re American and we speak English.”
“Technically,” I said pointing at her, “I’m one-fourth Latina, one-forth Cherokee, and one-half American. And you’re of, uh, Italian and French descent, right?”
“And British,” she reminded me, “and we’re not being technical.”
“Whatever,” I said, “I need milk.”
“Whole or two percent.”
“Whole.”
“Gallon or quart?”
“Gallon.”
She sprinted to the refrigerators and grabbed a gallon of Turner Dairy brand.
“Thanks, Jess.”
“Any time, Carm.”
We walked a little bit more.
“Are you sleeping any better?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Not really. I’ve felt, I don’t know...restless these last few weeks.”
She pursed her lips as I grabbed a can of Chicken of the Sea. “That’s weird. I guess it could be that you’re still not used to the house. Remember how you used to not be able to sleep at my house?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’s probably it.”
“And how about your stomach?”
“Same, too.”
“Huh?”
“Well, I’ve still got indigestion and heartburn, and some occasional, uh,” I lowered my voice and told her the rest. Diarrhea and constipation aren’t things to be spoken about in mixed company.
“You have them both?” she asked. 
 “Yeah, but not much. It kind of comes and goes.”
“Maybe you should go to the doctor,” Jess concluded.
“Why?”
“You got another explanation?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
Her stomach growled. “Let’s go pay for this stuff and go eat.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
*
We decided to go to Ta Molly’s. I don’t like it to this day, but Jessica loved it. Since it was her turn to pick, I didn’t have much authority over her. But if she wanted Mexican, why not Don José? Seriously, it’s so much better.
Anyway, we sat down and ordered our drinks. Sweet tea for me; a Dr. Pepper for Jessica.
“Can we get some cheese dip, too?” she asked the waitress.
“Of course,” she replied, scribbling frantically. She left and we helped ourselves to salsa and tortilla chips.
“So,” I said taking a bite of the chip, “how are you and Ross?”
Surprisingly, Ross and Jessica had hit it off immediately. Although they were complete opposites, Ross understood exactly what Jessica wanted and needed, and she understood him, too.
Her face reddened. “There is no ‘Ross,’” she used air quotes, “and I.”
I snickered. “Sure there is. If there wasn’t, you wouldn’t be blushing.”
She shrugged. “You have transformed it into an embarrassing topic. So, let’s change it. How are you and Trent?”
I narrowed my eyebrows at her. “The only thing about me and Trent is the fact that we’re married. Out of convenience. Strictly business, Miss Branch.”
The waitress came to the table and sat down our drinks and cheese dip. “I can take your order now,” she said.
“I’ll have the taco salad,” Jessica replied, “with rice and beans.”
“And I want the Fajita,” I replied.
“Chicken, steak, chicken?” she asked.
“All three. With rice, no beans.”
She nodded and scribbled out our order. “It’ll be out soon,” she replied.
As the waitress left, Jessica said, “As I was saying before, I think there’s a little more than just convenience.”
“Huh?”
“He’s hot, Carm. Like Brad Pitt and John Cena had a baby hot,” she waggled her eyebrows at me, “are you sure that there’s nothing going on between you two, at all?”
“Of course not, Jessica. Where’d you even get that idea.”
She chuckled. “Ross came in to the bank the other day to see Trent about God knows what. Anyway, he asked the girl at the front desk about you and she said that you were in there and y’all weren’t to be disturbed.”
Heat filled my cheeks. “Jessica, we were discussing the company Christmas party. That’s the main reason Trent hired me for that job.”
She smirked and said, “Sure, I’ll bet.”
We sat in silence and ate chips for a while, when suddenly, a terrible smell wafted into my nose. I crinkled it and looked at Jessica. She was doing the same thing that I was.
“What the-” I was interrupted.
“Bubby puked, Mommy!” a boy of about four or five screamed.
I turned around. Sure enough, there was a grey-ish, lumpy substance all over the floor. A wave of nausea overcame me as the smell assaulted my nose.
I clasped my hand over my mouth and ran to the bathroom.
About five minutes later, Jessica came in and held my hair for me.
After I was finished, I apologized.
She chuckled. “It’s fine, Carm. We all vomit sometimes.”
“Ugh!” I threw up again.
“Oh, shit!” she exclaimed, “I’m sorry! I forgot that that word grosses you out.”
I groaned again and said, “I think I’m okay, but I think I should leave.”
“Of course,” she replied. “We can put our food in doggy bags and go.”
I shook my head in confusion. What was wrong with me lately? I really hoped that I wasn’t getting really sick...