The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  “To answer the have I always question,” I begin, turning to Penny as Ruby and I maintain our pace along the leaf-strewn path, “it’s sort of like—how did you know you wanted dogs? You just knew, right?”

  Penny nods as she brushes off a strand of brown hair from her cheek. “I’ve always loved dogs. I can’t remember not wanting one.”

  I shrug as if my situation is as easy to understand. “It’s the same for me.”

  “And you don’t want to wait any longer to meet the right guy? To make sure you don’t want to do this with a partner?”

  I slow as we weave around the tip of the water. “Ladies, I’m thirty. I’m not getting any younger, and the pickings aren’t getting any better. I’ve been on the dating merry-go-round for far too long, and it just keeps spinning. It’s making me dizzy. Plus, let’s not forget I’m immune to love. May I present evidence in the form of Greg?”

  Delaney sighs sympathetically. “He was such a nice guy.”

  “He was extraordinarily sweet and quite good to me, too,” I say, recalling my ex from a few years ago. “And I didn’t feel it. I’m like a defective part. I’m the balloon in the bag that doesn’t blow up.”

  Penny furrows her brow. “I’ve never come across a balloon that doesn’t blow up. Is that a thing?”

  “Fine. I’m the bad starter on a car, or whatever the hell goes bad on cars that have to be recalled. You know what I mean. Clearly, there’s something wrong with me if I couldn’t even settle down with a nice guy like Greg.”

  “Your ex was pretty much the textbook nice guy,” Delaney says about my former fiancé, a sweet-as-pie coffee shop owner who I brazenly asked out the day I met him after he whipped up a mocha latte for me with a heart drawn in the foam. We dated for seven months and were engaged for two. He was everything I thought I wanted: handsome, kind, sweet, attentive, and always ready with a caffeinated beverage with art on top.

  But we were spark-free. He didn’t make me weak in the knees, and I’m pretty sure there was no growl in his throat when he saw me naked. Not that I don’t look good in my bare skin. I rock the nude look, thank you very much. And it’s not because I’m a perfect ten. It’s because I like to accessorize every outfit, including nudity, with chin-up confidence. That’s my best asset, and it’ll last longer than perky boobs.

  The thing is, Greg and I were good separately, but together we were toothpaste and orange juice.

  Several weeks into our engagement, the lovely little diamond slipped off my finger in the shower, courtesy of my Vanilla Spice body wash. The ring slipped into the drain and hasn’t been seen since. For all I know, it’s been swept into the great sewers of Manhattan, and a rat is wearing it as a tiara. I was devastated at first, but then decided fate was giving me a sign. I didn’t want to marry a man who didn’t make me swoon, and so I called it off. Greg married someone else a year later and invited me to the wedding. He and his wife appear outrageously happy, so it worked out for all of us, not just the rat.

  Since then, I’ve had some memorable dates and some not-so-memorable ones. I even went out with a guy from the local dog park who owned a Papillion and a Great Dane, a combination I found utterly delightful, so I stayed with him for four months. The problem is the dogs were so damn cute together that it took me three months and three weeks longer than it should have to realize the guy didn’t give me butterfly flutters—it was the pups causing the swoops and dives.

  Like I said, the love portion of me is defective. I just don’t feel it. I do, however, feel gobs for my friends, my Ruby, my amazing mom, my pain-in-the-butt brother, and every single one of my callers and readers. That’s why I can do my show from a place of conviction.

  As we round a bend, I say, “I’m just one of those girls who is better off going it alone. Maybe I’m too picky. Maybe I’m a hard-ass. Maybe I’m simply too cynical about love.”

  “Ironic that the dating guru is a cynic,” Delaney says, clucking her tongue.

  “I do believe in love,” I say, correcting her. “I’m just not entirely sure I believe it’s ever going to happen for me. And that’s okay. I’m fine with my single lot in life.”

  See? I’m already in the acceptance phase of the five stages of I’ll-never-fall-in-love grief.

  “It will happen in its own due time,” Penny says, waggling her own engagement ring as a gaggle of geese splashes in the water. “There’s a goose out there for you. Geese mate for life,” Penny adds, in case I’ve somehow forgotten Penny often looks to the animal kingdom for dating analogies.

  “Perhaps I need to spend more time looking in lakes, then, for Mr. Right,” I quip as Ruby yanks gently toward a squirrel scampering up a tree. A quick tug from me reminds her to stay on track. Ruby raises her face, meeting my eyes with a look that says, See, Mom, I listened to you.

  “Good girl,” I tell her.

  Delaney inhales deeply as we prepare to run up a steep hill. “In all seriousness, though, why do you think it won’t happen to you?”

  She asks a good question, and since my job is to zero in on matters of the heart and the bedroom, I’ve applied the same rigorous examination to myself. I have the answer handy. “Here’s why. I believe that writing about dating and love and sexual fetishes has made me immune to love. It’s the nature of the beast. The more time I spend breaking down habits and strategies, the more I become resistant to them. I’m like a doctor who can be exposed to all sorts of viruses but won’t catch them.”

  Penny quirks her eyebrow. “So, love is a virus?”

  “Absolutely. And it seems I’ve got more antibodies to it than I expected,” I say as a mom crests the hill pushing a three-wheeled jogging stroller in the other direction. My heart skips a beat. My eyes snap to the sweetest little bundle of joy in the stroller—a baby girl, decked out in a cute, pink onesie. A blond angel I just want to smother in kisses, and I don’t even know her. Butterflies launch a full-scale fiesta in my chest. Trumpets blare.

  “Oh my God, your little girl is so adorable,” I call out with a bright smile.

  The young mom returns my grin, her ponytail swishing as she jogs. “Thank you.”

  “How old?”

  “Six and a half months.”

  “She’s a little princess.”

  “She is, indeed,” the mom says. “Thank you for the sweet words.”

  I sigh happily as I jog, and twenty feet later it occurs to me that I’m alone. I stop and bounce in place, looking around for my girls. Penny and Nicole are frozen in their spots, jaws languishing on the running path, eyes the size of fried eggs.

  “Why are you looking at me like I’ve sprouted wings?” I ask as I stop moving.

  Delaney goes first, flapping her arms in the direction of the mom. “Yes!”

  I furrow my brow and jog back to them. “Yes, what?”

  “It all makes sense,” Delaney says, jerking her gaze to Penny. “It all makes perfect sense, right, Penny?”

  My dark-haired friend nods then gestures to me. “You always comment on how cute babies are. You always talk to the moms in the dog park. At the dog shelter events, you’re the one who’s interacting with the kids who’ve come along.”

  My grin turns to a full-scale beam of the highest wattage. “I love kids. I’ve always wanted my own.”

  Penny smacks her forehead. “My God. It’s so obvious now. Like at the bookstore a few weeks ago, picking up baby shower gifts for one of your clients,” Penny says, pointing to Delaney, and I can remember the day perfectly. A cute little four- or five-year-old was sounding out the words to Brown Bear, Brown Bear, and I helped him with the ones he struggled with. It was just second nature to me.

  Delaney jumps in. “I knew you wanted to have a family someday, but I guess I always thought you’d want to do it as part of a couple. But you don’t need to. You can do this on your own.”

  My heart bursts full and bright in my chest. I love that they get it. That they understand this is part of who I am. Maybe my path to parenthood is unconventional, bu
t the end result is part and parcel of my very makeup.

  “And how adorable was that little girl we just passed?” I turn to Ruby and talk to my dog. “She’s so totally cute, and soon we’re going to have one of our own.” I bend closer to my pooch, tousling her silky, russet coat. “Do you want to be an aunt?” With my hands on her snout, I make her nod yes. “You do. Oh, you do want to be an aunt. You’d be such a good auntie dog.”

  Ruby wags her tail faster and paws at me. “I know, I know. We’ll get you a little niece or nephew very soon.” I rise and meet the gawking gazes of my best friends. If I shocked them when I started this conversation, I might have completely rendered them speechless now. I flash a smile and pat Ruby’s head. My dog leans against my thigh. “We’re going to be like elephants. Ruby and I. Raising our young in a little matriarchal society.”

  “Yoo-hoo,” Penny says, waving dramatically and pointing at her and Delaney.

  “Are we chopped liver?” Delaney asks.

  “You’re in, too?”

  Penny rolls her eyes. “If you’re doing this, we’re all in.”

  Delaney laughs. “We’re going to be part of your elephant matriarchy, you crazy woman.”

  For the rest of the run, I debrief my best friends on all the research I’ve conducted so far on Project Bun in the Oven, detailing obstacles and opportunities, pros and cons.

  By the time we’re done, I’ve told them I intend to approach this like I do one of my columns—with a Top Five Reasons Why list and a firm deadline.

  The clock is ticking.

  4

  Ryder

  The next day, as I work on a column on third-date etiquette and expectations—let’s be real: the only thing a guy wants to know is if he’ll get the third night’s lucky charm—Cal Tomkin calls me into his office.

  My overlord is a lot like Peter Parker’s boss, J. Jonah Jameson, in the Spiderman movies. He speaks as if he’s firing bullets, and he’s made of geometric shapes. His head is a rectangle. His chest is a trapezoid. His lips are an oval.

  “Come in, Ryder. Have a seat.”

  Words you never want to hear from the man who signs your checks. Have a seat translates into “I’m so unhappy with your work I’m molting, and you’re one step away from getting fired.”

  I park myself in the blue upholstered seat across from his desk, prepared for the onslaught of angry feathers.

  Words don’t come, nor do feathers. Instead, Cal stands and strides to his bookshelf. Ah, so this will be a long, drawn-out kind of reprimand. Great.

  Drumming his fingers over the spine of one title, Cal appears deep in consideration. Like I don’t know what book he’s about to pick up. “Now, what is it I’m looking for?” he muses, as he taps a chubby, cylindrical finger against his chin.

  “Gee, I’m not really sure,” I say.

  “Hmm. I could have sworn I had a signed first edition from the author himself.”

  He hunts, dragging his fingers across the shelf in a dramatic show. I wonder, wonder, wonder if he’ll find it.

  “Aha,” he declares and plucks a yellow tome from the shelves. He spins around, a gotcha look on his blocky face, and brandishes an incriminating photo of me on the back jacket. A smiling, happily married me.

  Tomkin taps the book. “Got Your Back by Ryder Lockhart. Number-one bestseller. Translated into ten languages. Sold half a million copies.” He inhales deeply, as if he’s pleased. “The bible,” he says, venerating the book. “Men called this the bible.”

  I chuckle lightly as if humbly deflecting praise. “Well, I suppose you might find a passage or two in there about how to help a woman call to the saints, cry out plaintively to our maker, and say the Lord’s name over and over again, and it definitely wouldn’t be in vain.”

  Cal’s mouth forms a ruler-straight line. His eyes lock onto mine. I’m the target in his crosshairs. “Yeah, that’s the problem,” he barks. “You’re supposed to be the Consummate Wingman, but lately you’re the dickhead in the locker room.”

  I scoff like a pro. The textbook definition of scoffing because what the fuck? I actually utter a shocked “whoa” as I hold up my hands, warding off his attack. “That is not my shtick on the show whatsoever.”

  He calls my bluff. “Cut the surprised act. You and I both know that’s the role you’ve been playing.” His tone brooks no argument.

  I swallow dryly, shifting in my seat. “It’s not my intention to come across that way.”

  “It’s not? You sure?” He flips open the book and settles on my bio on the back page. I brace myself, even though all my old football instincts tell me to tackle him and strip the ball because that shit in my bio needs to stay locked up. “Ryder Lockhart is happily married to a talented and lovely pastry chef, after a whirlwind courtship in Manhattan. They have a dog named Romeo, and they like to cook, hike, and go to the movies. With a degree in psychology, as well as having spent his younger years being raised by the happiest mom and dad around, Lockhart knows what it takes to have the confidence to talk to a woman with the intent of forging a lasting relationship with that special someone.”

  Cal slaps the book onto his desk. It lands with a loud thud. He reaches for his coffee, takes a thirsty gulp, and sets the mug down on the book.

  I point to the book, so he knows his faux pas. “Excuse me, you just put—”

  “I know. It was my intention. Because that’s about all this book is good for these days. It’s a coaster, Ryder. A goddamn coaster.” He sets his palms on his thighs. “Where is the persona I hired? Is he hidden away in these pages?”

  Where is Ryder Lockhart? Ask Maggie. She killed him. Maggie took her cooking knife, sharpened the blade, and plunged it into my chest.

  Seven times.

  I clench my teeth and suck in a breath. “I’m right here.”

  Cal arches an eyebrow skeptically—his triangle move. “Then perhaps you’d like to focus more on what the show sponsors want. Be a little less Ten Ways to Screw the Hot Chick, and shift to Ten Tried and True Methods to Win the Love of Your Life.”

  The love of your life? The love of my life is Romeo. That’s loyalty. That’s true love.

  But the book isn’t selling how it used to, the classes are drying up, and surprise, I’m not in such fucking demand as a relationship consultant on account of my picture-book marriage going up in flames with the white picket fence as the kindling.

  Turns out that life coaches do better when they walk the walk and talk the talk.

  Whodda thunk it?

  “I can pull back on the sex talk on my show,” I offer, since I don’t have a lot of cards to play here at Hanky Panky Love. If the advertisers are getting cold feet, I’ll have to do something.

  Cal shakes his head, a beleaguered look on his face. “There’s nothing wrong with sex. Sex is great. We all love it. We’re all trying to have more of it. I’m not silencing you from talking about sex. We built this division of this media business on a willingness to write frankly, honestly, and humorously about sex. But it is always with the underlying goal of love. That’s why we’re named Hanky Panky Love. But lately, you’re all about the hanky panky, and not about the love. I’m asking you to find a way to tie your show and your column back to the mission: intimacy.”

  I shudder at that word.

  “Take Nicole Powers,” Cal continues, and the second he mentions her name, his expression shifts. He beams as if she’s the golden child, while I’m the bastard offspring. “She can talk about orgasms till the cows come home, but everything is tied back to finding the one. The one true love.”

  “Nicole does a great job,” I say, and maybe I’m a tiny bit jealous of his praise, but mostly I’m happy for her because that chick is the definition of cool. Who knew the woman could discover so many interesting ways to fit an eight-inch vibrator into the bedroom? I read that in her column a few months ago, and I was damn impressed with how she suggested a squeeze-play action so the rabbit could join in woman-on-top.

  Plus, she kills
it as a Ping-Pong partner. She’s hungry and ferocious and loves to win. So do I, and don’t let anyone tell you that that little table sport isn’t a wonderful way to work out aggression over your ex.

  “One true love,” I say, the words acrid on my tongue. But I don’t have the luxury of ignoring his request, so I gobble up a big dose of bitter, humble pie. “I can do that, Cal. I can absolutely refocus to finding the one true love.”

  “Thank you. I know you can, and I’m confident you will. I am sorry your marital fortune changed, but you still have a job to do, and when I hear comments on the show about getting laid, coupled with your remarks at the seminar last night, they concern me.”

  I tilt my head, a suspicious curiosity zipping through me. “I didn’t see you at the seminar.”

  “Of course not. I sent my son to attend.”

  I groan as I remember the goateed man feverishly taking notes. “You had a plant there to spy on me, Mr. Tomkin?”

  “I don’t consider it spying. I see it as conducting due diligence on the investment I made in your brand.”

  “I told those guys at the class to treat women well,” I say, defending my closing act in the session.

  His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “By giving them a huff and puff orgasm?”

  I stand and park my hands on my hips. “Is that not part of treating a woman well?”

  “It absolutely is, and I make sure Mrs. Tomkin is showered in gifts in that department,” he says, and I immediately hit the erase button on the last ten seconds.

  I focus on what I have to do next. I need to convince him I can be the guy I once was. I thread my fingers together, showing the union of my hands. “The bond between love and intimacy is a beautiful thing. That’s why I aim to give men the confidence to talk to the women of their dreams.”