Hardest to Love

by Sidney Ivens

But the face. That face. She has a beautiful face that launches thousands of double-takes. This is Helen of Troy, we’ll-fight-to-the-death face. Very little makeup and creamy skin. Pale, no freckles, model cheekbones. Soft, full lips. Darker blue eyes, sapphires with long mink lashes. And there’s not an iota of diva vanity behind those eyes.

  Concentrate, numnuts. I roll my shoulders back and steeple my hands. “Your aunt around? It’s your aunt, right, who owns the building? Or your mom?”

  She straightens, goes rigid. “Aunt.”

  Hmm. Noted. Has a sore spot about mom. “We can take care of this right now. You teach this . . . group; I’ll talk to her.”

  “You’re not talking to anyone. Just who are you?”

  “Wait! Uhm.” Twenty feet away, the blonde braces the mic with one hand, waves the other skinny arm. “I’d like him to answer my question.”

  I ignore the blonde and glance at the professor. “Can I talk to you, then? About selling?”

  She stares at me as if I were a zoo animal that had gotten loose. “We’re not interested in selling. This is our home as well.”

  Her home? Had to be the third floor. I’d displace her, the aunt and the mentally handicapped brother. Tough stuff, and her choked-up intro to the brother got to me a little. An even more urgent reason to sell. “You can buy a house. Win-win.”

  “No, no. There’s no way someone as slick as you is talking to my aunt.”

  “I’ll call direct, then.”

  “And I’ll guard her phone.”

  I laugh. “Stubborn. Okay. I’ll call tomorrow. Bye, ladies.”

  A loud ricochet of female NO’s ripples through the room.

  Flustered, the professor frowns. “Let’s take a vote. Who wants this . . . man. . . to stay?”

  Every woman raised her hand. Except for the professor.

  “It appears you have co-opted my class.” Her arms are crossed, eyebrows arched.

  “I offered to leave.”

  “Please tell us your name. So I can have all the local colleges add you to their instructor roster.”

  “Ah, sarcasm. I like that in a woman.” A challenge, dragging my eyes away from that beautiful face, but I manage. I turn toward the blonde at the microphone. “The truth or a sugar coating?”

  “Truth.”

  “The guy’s not ready for a relationship. He may never be ready. Why would you want to be with a guy like that?” I tap my temple. “Use the old noggin.”

  “Tell us why men are such assholes, genius.” One guess where that air strike’s coming from: the redhead at three o’clock.

  “For one, you can dial down the hostility. As a spokesperson from the enemy camp, I gotta tell you, you’re not winning any converts to the cause. I mean, look at you. You’re here instead of at a club. How do you expect to meet anyone?”

  “Like I’m going to meet the love of my life in a seedy bar.”

  “Like you’re going to meet him here. Tell you ladies what. Come back after I’ve bought and remodeled the place. The first round of wings is on me.”

  “You’re not buying our bookstore.” The professor’s polite voice is louder.

  I shoot her a look. She’s something. Under that wool frock—pelt, or whatever that sweater’s called—is quite a mouthwatering morsel. And my gut tells me she’s attracted to me, too.

  Here’s a “fun fact” for the rest of you ladies out there. Often women are sexually attracted to assholes; you refuse to admit it.

  In high school, I lettered in asshole. The varsity cheerleaders formed a death squad to take me out, but I still got their numbers. But here I’m on foreign terrain. The professor is a hard read. Sexy librarian longing for someone to stamp her overdue book? A recluse with cats? I wasn’t getting a man-hater vibe.

  Sexual attraction isn’t logical. I know this, she doesn’t. I’d get easy control talking to her one-on-one. Over drinks.

  First, deal with the class. Trigger them into leaving. Most of the women in this class are two Molotov cocktails short of a Pussy Hat riot. Say something offensive, they’ll clear out in an outraged huff.

  What might provoke a banshee uprising? I can’t tell them to all get plastic surgery, lipo and personality transplants. I glance around. I need something to drive my point home.

  Bingo. A prop.

  I approach a heavy chick wearing a cat shirt in the front row, clutching a paperback with a guy’s sweaty torso. Eyes bulging, she plasters herself against her seat like I’m a hatchet-wielding Hun. “Please. May I see that?”

  Shaking, Cat Shirt Chick hands me the novel.

  I take it and hold up the book for everyone to see. “I know what you want. Someone who’s ripped. Someone who earns seven figures. A prince who’ll slay the dragon. This guy? We’ll call him Chad. Chad doesn’t deal in facts like real men do; the real world of bills and obligations and assholes you have to put up with to get ahead. No. He deals in feelings. He’s sensitive and will leave rose petals on the bed and brush the tear away from your poor widdle cheek. He’ll cook for you and rinse your undies in the sink. Guess what? Chad’s already married . . . to Chuck.”

  A paper plane with a cartoon pig’s head and crossbones, with DIE, CHAUVINIST, sails past my head. Banks off the podium and falls to the wood parquet floor.

  Wood parquet. That would have to be replaced, too.

  “Here is my take on women’s studies. What women are studying is wrong.” I tap the book against my palm. “One, there is no such thing as a perfect guy. Perfect Guy does not exist. Take a look at the person sitting next to you. Go on.” I nod at Red. “You too, Gingerella.”

  “I’m pissed. Literally, watching you. I’m pissed.”

  “Pissed.” I pause while the women eye each other. “Take a good look. Is she perfect? Naw. Neither are you. So let’s stop looking for the perfect guy. Men aren’t perfect and you aren’t, either. Next, presentation. We’re visual creatures. Sweats and pajamas don’t catch our eyes. Lady in front there. The only guy who’ll date a woman who wears a cat shirt is writing a manifesto in a shed. Look. You’re attractive.”

  Cat Shirt Chick becomes flustered. “I, I am?”

  If I tell the truth, the entire front row would sink their incisors in me like the last shortbread cookie at Starbucks. “Wear something that doesn’t compete with your face. When I look at you, all I see is that stupid cat.”

  “But this looks like my tabby, Jack Sparrow.”

  God help me. Surrounded. I pace in front of the class. “Wear things that accentuate your looks, not detract from them. C’mon. You like sexy, don’t you? We like sexy, too.”

  “We’ll do sexy when you wear a zebra jockstrap,” the redhead shouts out.

  “Hey, if we’re dating and you dig stripes, game on. I might prance around in one for the professor here.” I grin. “Provided she sells me this place.”

  “We’re not selling.”

  “I’m going to enjoy changing your mind.” My voice comes out lower, husky.

  Our eyes lock. She’s pulling at the hem of her turtleneck. Holding in her breath, mouth parted. Supremely attractive girl. I can easily picture her with her hair tousled, holding a crumpled bed sheet around her naked body. Me slowly walking toward her, a big smile on my face, pulling the sheet loose from her hands. I’ll start by kissing her neck and work my way down.

  Reluctantly I drag my attention back to the group. “Bottom line, I suggest you leave Chad here—” I hold up the romance novel. “And venture out into the real world.” I walk over and return the romance novel to Cat Shirt Chick.

  The blonde at the mic coughs. “I know Chad’s a fantasy, but can’t I have any standards? I won’t settle for mediocre.” Her knee caps stick out like two stale biscuits on anorexic legs. “I mean, look at me. I’ve modeled.”

  Yeah. Modeled for an eating disorder poster. I feel immediate sympathy for any guy who took her to dinner. One, he’d have to watch her gnaw on parsley. Two, he’d have to read her blog.

  “It’s not fair. I
’ve got my Master’s. I’m the one who’s amazing. And this asshole.” She jabs a finger at me. “Out-earns me because he’s got a freakin’ penis.”

  Applause erupts. Red inserts two fingers into her mouth and blows a whistle as loud as a foghorn.

  “Run a successful business and you might out-earn me,” I say. “Look. You should be paid for the same work.”

  The redhead snorted. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do. I absolutely do. But chew on this fact. More women are graduating from college than men, degrees in nursing, English, journalism, or they’re earning law degrees in a profession over-saturated for thirty years. You ladies want to make some dough? Become a neurosurgeon. Work on Wall Street.”

  “I’m a writer, not some corporate asshole,” the blonde says into the mic. “I have a voice and an audience out there.”

  “Uh-huh. How’s the blog working out? What is it now, three followers? Five, if you count mom and Fluffy?”

  “You’re being mean,” the professor says.

  “And corporate asshole is a compliment?” I turn back to the women. “Guys pay seventy percent of the taxes. We engineered most of the inventions. We work as miners, construction workers, dangerous as hell professions, the dirty, crappy jobs.”

  “What about changing diapers?”

  “What about crawling through a sewer tunnel?” I counter. “Oh, right. Get a man to do it while you work in the air-conditioned office.”

  The professor presses her palms downward, the diplomat trying to calm down everyone before the parliament riots. “These surface arguments never change a single opinion. It just ensures louder yelling.”

  Pissed jabs a thumb into her chest, lenses of her cat-lady glasses steamed up. “I don’t need a man. First I love myself.”

  “But what about someone loving you?” the professor asks. “Abraham Maslow ranked human needs as food, shelter, and safety. On the Maslow scale, love ranks higher than self-esteem.”

  The redhead scoffs. “Maslow was wrong.”

  “Maybe. As long as we feel great about ourselves, our lives should be great. Right?” The professor looks around the rows of chairs. “But love isn’t something you achieve. Falling in love is random. Our happiness doesn’t completely hinge on how we feel about ourselves or what we do for a living. I think most of you would agree—our happiness comes from the quality of our relationships. Isn’t it possible we’re hard-wired for love, and yet we beat ourselves up for wanting it? What are we doing, thinking that if we hate men, we’ll be happier? Convincing ourselves that it’s okay to be lonely?”

  Pin drop response. Yarn fuzz falling from the knitter’s lap would make more noise.

  “Start observing. Really observing. The more we deny that we need love, the bigger the fantasies. Watch a few TV shows: the fixation on fairy-tale weddings, the perfect wedding dress, the instant marriages, and engagements. If our careers and independence were all that mattered, why do we watch those shows? We tell ourselves they’re guilty pleasures. Maybe it’s what we need.” The professor looks at the blonde at the microphone. “It hurts when we’re rejected. The attachment drive is powerful. To belong, to matter. In the animal kingdom, connection is life-or-death survival, and it starts early. There was an experiment done by a psychologist named Harry Harlow. A famous experiment on maternal deprivation. Look it up some time; the photographs will break your heart. Rhesus monkeys were taken from their real mothers. Two substitutes were provided, one a wire mother that held milk. The other was made of terrycloth and offered no milk. The rhesus babies rejected the wire mothers that had milk for the mothers made of terry cloth. They clung to them. That’s how much they craved attachment, they’d reject food for a mother that felt softer and more real.”

  WTF? Her words land hard in my solar plexus. I’m catching my breath like I just did an Olympic sprint. My shirt feels tighter, and a sick lurch twists inside my stomach. I remember Lexi’s compact from earlier. But now I see a broken mirror, its shards scattering everywhere, and I hear laughter. Merciless laughter.

  I make some kind of sound, a choking in the throat. They’re all staring. The creepy Shakespeare head on the shelf does, too. The firing pistons in my engine stall, and for several seconds, I can’t react. I pocket my hands to hide the adrenaline tremor coursing through them and strangle it inside me, that black mass of weakness. I rest my hands on my hips, fingers splayed near the belt, and lean forward. “Believe it or not, Professor, stereotypes help us stay safe. You know, that gut feeling you sometimes get. Snap judgments help us stay clear of dangerous places. Stereotypes are based on reliable patterns of behavior. Patterns we joke about: men don’t ask for directions, women take two hours to get ready. Men love bacon, women love chocolate. Men are practical, women are emotional. What’s at the surface is usually true.”

  “Those are generalizations. I believe people are individuals.”

  “You’re too nice to say what you really think.”

  She stomps a foot and rattles the nearby shelves. Dozens of paperbacks topple to the floor. “I am not too nice!”

  Whoa. That got her hackles up. We all stare at her, me the hardest. Verrry interesting. Before she started class, she almost seemed like a good little robot. She hadn’t wanted to be here.

  She isn’t fidgeting anymore. She is engaged. Fists clenched, a little breathless. Passionate.

  And major hot.

  There is something about this woman that makes me want to drive every polysyllabic word from her busy little brain. Reduce her to primal responses and drive her wild. I’m lightheaded from her perfume, blindsided by a weird lust. Something I can’t name.

  I shake it off. Recalibrate. Remember why you’re here.

  This girl is book smart, not street smart. She’s too sheltered, too soft. She couldn’t even handle a lame class. If someone offered her brass knuckles and a Medieval testicle cruncher to gain the advantage, she’d refuse. Because she’ll fight to stay nice. This is a girl who hates confrontation.

  Niceness. Her Achilles.

  Game over.

  The smile on my face widened. The aunt’s probably as nice and gullible. An easy sell.

  Click.

  Someone just held up their cell phone to take a picture. I have to disappear, fast, before I’m recognized. “Ladies.” I bow and turn back to her. “Professor. I apologize for the interruption.”

  And then I do something I’ve never done before.

  I bend over, lift the professor’s hand, hers small and cool in my palm. I look into her eyes and brush my lips across her pale knuckles, and my gondola-hat-wearing Italian ancestor jumps out of me. “Tesorina.”

  She’s angry, yet her pupils are dilated, aroused. Her face is flushed and beautiful.

  The room falls silent, and I leave.

  Their hen-house clucking follows me out the front doors. Back to my crib and Division One. I felt alive. Jacked. I didn’t talk to Auntie Em or whatever, but I got a look at the interior, and bonus points, I’d managed to set a few of those rabid women straight.

  The outside air is bracing. I slip into the Aston, the leather seat is cold on my back. A million things go through my mind, negotiations, hiring the best contractors, etching out a renovation timeline.

  Then an image pops into my head, unwelcome.

  Wire monkeys.

  What kind of shit is that?

  I shake it off, snap on some music, crank up the volume to some heavy metal. Shrug off the image of rhesus monkeys clinging to cloth.

  Far harder is forgetting how the Professor looked at me, the flush of her cheeks, the shape of her mouth. Her beautiful face stays with me. Even as I dial the number of another girl and ask if I could stop over.

  The smell of fresh coffee pulled Elena down the hall to the kitchenette, where sunlight streamed through the window and ruffled yellow topper. Usually, Aunt Robbie would be at the stove, frying up eggs, listening to ‘80s tunes on her iPod. Instead there was silence. Elena searched through their third-floor
apartment.

  Empty.

  Quickly she returned to her room and got dressed in jeans and a comfy old shirt. She ran downstairs to the lower retail level.

  Her aunt stood behind the main cash register counter near the entrance. Nearly fifty-five, she looked older, wispy auburn-dyed hair winged at the temples. A baggy blue striped shirt tented over her tan Capri pants. On her feet were orthopedic beige shoes.

  “Auntie Rob? Oh. Sorry.”

  Someone stood across from her aunt, opposite to the cash register, an early customer. A blonde. For a moment, Elena wondered if it was the woman from the microphone.

  No, not the woman from last night. This blonde was petite and gave a princess wave. Under her cashmere coat, she wore a powder-pink suit and a wine-colored bustier, an odd choice, given the cold weather. And black-and-silver stilettos. How on earth had she managed to walk in those flimsy things on the icy sidewalks? Unless servants carried her in here like Nefertiti.

  “Remember me?” She had heavy eyelids and eyebrows plucked in a haughty arch. She flung back her cornflower-blond extensions. “That horrible place.”

  “Alexandria? Alexandria Jasper?” They’d shared shifts at the college cafeteria, Lexi flirting with the male managers to avoid cleaning the bathrooms.

  Lexi’s smile was as phony as a Hollywood air kiss. “What a surprise to find you here.”

  Uh-huh, right. Lexi would be surprised the way an inside trader on Wall Street would be surprised. Elena’s guard went way up. She moved behind the counter, joining her aunt. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, hello to you, too.” Her eyes widened. “I’m scouting out potential new sites in the area for my employer and wanted to check out how the local businesses were doing around here.”

  “Who is your employer?”

  “A major hotel chain. I’m about to be promoted.”

  “Which hotel?”

  “My goodness. I didn’t expect to be grilled.” She pressed a manicured hand to her chest.

  Elena had zero tolerance for Alexandria Jasper’s annoying games. She narrowed her eyes. “Again. Why are you here?”

  “As I just explained,” she said irritably, “we’re exploring new venues for our hotel chain, and your neighborhood’s a hot one. I’m curious how your—your—” Lips pursed, she glanced around as if the shelves were part of a landfill. “Business is faring.”