Just My Type

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Just My Type Page 17

by Tara Sivec


  Time flew by quickly the last two hours while Blake and I got Ron Jeremy out of his cage, so he could hiss at me and then snuggle up in her arms and take a nap. After that, she talked about meeting Rachel online, I told her about the pumpkin farm back home, and she randomly inserted creepy, serial killer facts every so often that had absolutely nothing to do with what we were talking about.

  I really, really like Baker’s sister.

  Blake then made me take her to my closet, with Ron Jeremy still asleep in the crook of her arm, so she could pick out something for me to wear on my date with her brother. I tried getting it out of her five times while she flung items at me to try on, but she refused to even give me a hint. Which just made the nerves that much worse. Did she pick out an outfit that truly screams, “I will stab you with my fork if I don’t get any warm bread”?

  Who’s to know? Because Blake won’t fucking tell me where Baker is taking me.

  “Mooom!” Lincoln shouts again.

  I turn away from the mirror over my dresser, walking quickly past Blake as she gets off of my bed, gingerly cradling a sleeping Ron Jeremy against her chest as she moves.

  “I better go see what this is about,” I tell Blake as she meets me by the door.

  “I’ll go put this guy in his cage and give you guys a few minutes to talk before I bring him out for the Brandon hand-off,” she tells me, both of us moving out into the hallway. “I’ll most likely be standing somewhere close by eavesdropping, but far enough away so you won’t know I’m eavesdropping. You give my brother heart-eyes. My brother’s not fucking around with you, which means I’m not fucking around with you. I’ll be checking out the baggage in case both you pussies bitch about carrying it.”

  With a little bump of her shoulder against mine and a smile, Blake walks around me and exits the hallway in front of me, walking toward the kitchen to go put Ron Jeremy away, her short, wavy, pink hair bouncing as she goes. I see Lincoln standing next to the open front door where Brandon is waiting for me, and it feels like I’m walking through quicksand as I move across my living room with all this fucking emotional goo swirling around my feet.

  When I finally make it to the door, I give Lincoln a hug and kiss to the top of his head before he races over to the kitchen, where he saw his beloved R.J. disappear with Blake moments ago. When Lincoln is out of sight, and a few seconds later I can hear muffled talking between him and Blake, I turn back around to face Brandon.

  Jesus, he looks like shit.

  His hair that’s normally perfectly styled, with every strand slicked back using a bunch of froo-froo, expensive hair product shit, is a mess of hairs all over the place, like he’s been gripping it in his fists. Brandon’s always clean and neatly pressed three-piece suit has been replaced with just a white, wrinkled, Polo T-shirt that he always wears under the dress shirt of his suit, and a pair of equally wrinkled black dress pants.

  “You look great,” Brandon says, a hint of embarrassment in his voice as he looks down at himself before shoving his hands in his pockets.

  My, my, how the tables have turned.

  I almost snort as I think those words, when they remind me of Baker and one of his emails to me about my suspected prison kink.

  I know I look great, and not like the pile of uncaring, un-showering, chocolate-that-might-be-shit-licking person Brandon has witnessed for so long since the divorce.

  Blake dressed me in a pair of boyfriend capri jeans that sit low on my hips, with a wide-cuffed hem and little rips and tattered tears down the legs. Even though the boyfriend style made them a little baggy, she said they made my ass that her brother loves so much look “smoking hot.” I assumed Blake was an expert on the smoking hot female ass, since I am comfortable enough with myself to admit I’ve seen her wife’s ass, and it’s a pretty stellar one. I trusted her judgment. She paired the capris with a gray, loose-fitting cotton tank top with thin spaghetti straps that shows a decent amount of my cleavage without being indecent and has buttons going all the way down the front. The tank top ties in a knot right by my belly-button, showing some slivers of my stomach when I move. Blake told me to throw my hair up into a messy bun and slip on some comfy flip flops, assuring me I was dressed appropriately for what Baker has planned.

  She picked out the perfect outfit that was me. Casually sexy—casual being the keyword. I will always be a country girl at heart, no matter where I live, and I will never be comfortable going to fancy places, even if they do have amazing breadbaskets. It should calm my nerves that Blake didn’t dress me in a slinky, tight-fitting dress I can’t breathe in—goodbye requesting a third free breadbasket—with uncomfortable heels, where I’ll have to smile through the excruciating pain, and a sleek hairstyle with a shit-ton of hairspray. My outfit means we aren’t going somewhere fancy and uncomfortable. Somewhere casual and relaxed is just my speed.

  I should just be concentrating on how casual and relaxed I am, and how the possibility of a repeat bathroom performance is a guarantee. This one ending with a finale, instead of getting cut-off midseason by a kid who has to poop. Not worrying about official first date jitters.

  “Lincoln tells me you’re seeing someone.”

  Brandon’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I blink my eyes a few times to remember where I am and what’s going on.

  Dammit, Baker and his voodoo magic.

  “The guy you were interviewing… Baker, I think he said his name was,” Brandon continues, staring down at his feet, making this just as awkward as I expected him to. “Lincoln wouldn’t stop talking about him from the minute he got in the car, and about how great he is.”

  I think about Baker’s concern in the beginning about me having childcare, and I think about how nervous he was to meet Lincoln, and I think about Baker playing hide-and-seek all night with Lincoln, and I think about the two of them arguing good-naturedly about baseball over pizza, and I think about the birthday party and how at one point during the evening, Baker and Lincoln took over the television, turned on Baker’s PlayStation, and the two of them sat side-by-side laughing and calling each other names while they played some racing game.

  It was like that scene from the end of Forest Gump where Forest and Little Forest are sitting in front of the TV, and they both tilt their heads to the side at the same time, and those tears are there and you have to swallow them back, and you are fighting them, man.

  Except in this version, Lincoln was calling Baker a trash gremlin, and Baker was shoving Lincoln’s arm, telling him he sucked times infinity, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So, I shoveled an entire pink cupcake in my mouth at one time and ate my feelings.

  I should be freaking out that Lincoln told Brandon we’re dating, when I haven’t even had time to sit down and talk to Lincoln about it, since I just accepted that we’re dating, ohhh, like an hour ago. Except Baker is great. And Lincoln hasn’t stopped talking about how great he is to me either since the birthday party. I have no reason to freak out. I’m pretty sure I’ve had a large hand in raising a smart child who is an excellent judge of character, and who wouldn’t be telling his father all about the guy after just two interactions if he really thought he was a trash gremlin.

  “Anyway, I’m really happy for you, Ember. Like I said, you look great,” Brandon tells me, finally looking up from his shoes to give me a megawatt smile, which I quickly realize that, along with his compliments, are a lame attempt to butter me up. “Listen, about next weekend…” Brandon trails off, sliding one of his hands through his hair to smooth down some of the errant strands, adding a little apology and sheepishness to his smile.

  I know exactly how he’s going to end that sentence, and no amount of him trying to look fake-sincere about it is going to make what he has to say any better.

  “I need to cancel. Something came up at work,” Brandon finishes, holding both his hands palm-up, out to his sides in a shrug, with a What are you gonna do? look on his stupid fucking face.

  He thinks that, because I’m seeing
someone, I’ve gone soft again, just like I did when I was with him. He has no clue that Baker makes me anything but soft.

  I suddenly feel closer now to Ron Jeremy than ever before. I want to start clicking and hissing at the dipshit standing in front of me.

  I’ve started to get a backbone here and there with Brandon on certain things, but I’ve held my tongue each time he’s had to cancel on Lincoln, or flaked out on picking him up or dropping him off. Divorce is hard enough without me being a shrew every time he does something stupid, and I didn’t want to argue with him and force him to spend time with his own son. So, I kept my mouth shut, no matter how pissed I was.

  “He’s strong enough to help you carry that baggage wherever you need it to go, for however long you need to lug it around.”

  Blake’s words in my head make me narrow my eyes and glare at Brandon, his arms immediately falling, right along with his stupid fucking smile. I’m already starting to feel a little lighter in the baggage area, just thinking about Baker. Which means I am now rightfully pissed.

  “You specifically asked me to switch weekends with you over a month ago, because you booked a room for you and Lincoln at some hotel. I even wrote it on my calendar,” I remind him, my annoyance rising when I think of all the times I’ve made accommodations for this man.

  “It’s the Grand Geneva Resort and Spa.” Brandon scoffs. “I booked us the fourteen-hundred square foot Grand Suite, and it has the best amenities—”

  “I don’t give a shit about the square footage, Brandon,” I cut him off. “That’s not the point. This is the last time you’re going to cancel on your son without a better excuse than your stupid fucking job. Acceptable excuses for you to cancel on your one and only child are severe accidents involving a severed limb with enough blood loss to make it impossible to move, and or actual death.”

  “Listen, Ember, I’ve got some stuff going on with work, and you need to understand—”

  “No, you need to understand,” I interrupt again, feeling Blake slide up next to me, her arm brushing against mine. “Do you really want Lincoln to grow up and find out I had to yell and nag at his father to get him to spend time with him? I get you have a very demanding job, and that sometimes you’ll have something come up, but this has been going on for a very long time, and it’s just gotten worse. Pull your goddamn head out of your ass, and for shit’s sake, take a shower as soon as you get home.”

  I hear Blake snort under her breath. She does a good job of smothering her smile quickly when I turn and look at her to take Ron Jeremy’s small travel cage from her that she put him in, before turning back toward Brandon and pushing the cage into his chest.

  “This is Ron Jeremy, and yes, he’s a hedgehog named after a porn star. Lincoln learned that name from a friend at school, so you can thank your fancy tuition money on that shit,” I explain to him, as Brandon wraps his arms around the cage and stares into it bewilderedly.

  “Why is he making that godawful noise?” Brandon asks loudly, over the constant hissing Ron Jeremy has been making since Blake walked up to me, which I’ve pretended like I couldn’t hear.

  “Because he’s an asshole, but he adores Lincoln. Your son knows everything there is about taking care of him, so put your phone down tonight and let him explain it to you,” I add.

  Lincoln comes racing over to us then, with his overnight bag hanging off his shoulder, pushing between me and Blake to take Ron Jeremy’s cage from Brandon. Lincoln gives me a one-armed hug and says goodbye to Blake before he takes off down the stairs, chatting to Ron Jeremy the whole way about his dad’s house.

  “If he hisses at you for more than fifteen minutes and his eyes start to turn red, just put him back in his cage. It should be fine,” I tell Brandon as he starts to turn and follow Lincoln to the car.

  His wide-eyed shock as I close the door on him is thanks enough for him forcing me to act like a nagging shrew.

  “That was evil,” Blake says as soon as the door is closed. “I like you even more than I already did.”

  As Blake retrieves her car keys from my kitchen counter where she left them, she gives me a quick kiss on the cheek before heading out the door.

  “Oh, and one last thing,” she says, poking her head back inside the house right before she almost had the door closed behind her. “Pack a bathing suit and a towel for your date tonight.”

  She pulls her head out and slams the door closed before I can even question why in the hell I would need a bathing suit.

  I’m going on a date tonight. A casual, relaxed, bathing suit date, and it won’t be weird or awkward at all.

  Dammit. Now the nerves are back. I wonder if Baker would be opposed to making this an email-only relationship?

  CHAPTER 21

  Ember

  For the Love of God, Touch Me Already!

  “Sorry,” I mumble to Baker, clenching my hands tightly together in my lap.

  After we both reached for the radio at the same fucking time, and when our fingers bumped together, I jerked my hand back like I’d just touched an electric fence.

  I knew it. I knew the whole ride to wherever he’s taking me was going to be weird and awkward. After Blake left, I was all alone, and I realized I was dressed and ready for the date three hours early. I had nothing to do but sit there and think. Which made the nerves even worse. This is why, as annoying as it was, dating Baker without really knowing I was dating Baker was so much easier. No expectations. No nerves. It was fun and easy being clueless. Now that my brain is involved, it’s not fun and easy. It’s first date pressure.

  Does he think I smell good?

  Does he like what I’m wearing?

  Do I have lipstick on my teeth?

  Should I say something, or is he not talking, because he needs silence while he drives?

  Is he not talking because he’s waiting for me to say something funny? Blake says I make him laugh, and he needs that in his life. He’s waiting for me to make him laugh; that’s why this ride has been completely silent the whole time. I should say something funny. He must need it.

  “Ron Jeremy has a very small penis.”

  Oh my God! I’m not a monkey! I can’t be funny on command!

  “I mean, not the Ron Jeremy. We know he’s impressive in the meat packing department,” I ramble nervously. “I mean R. J. It’s a tiny, little, pink nubbin of a thing, and now I know why he hisses so much. He’s got tiny penis rage.”

  I stifle the groan of disappointment in myself, glancing over at Baker. We’re stopped at a red light, the streetlights and glow of the dashboard illuminating his face just enough that I watch his eyes flicker to mine, giving me a lopsided smile before turning back to the street right as the light turns green. He’s smiling. That’s a good sign. He’s not unlocking the doors and shoving me out into oncoming traffic, so that must mean this isn’t the worst first official date in the history of the world. No need to be nervous.

  I hope he likes what I’m wearing.

  Can he smell the seven Altoids I shoved in my mouth before I got in his Jeep, and take my minty fresh breath as a sign we should just skip this date and make out?

  Can we skip this date and make out?

  No. We can’t do that. It’s our first date.

  No it’s not. You’ve been dating for weeks. You should have had sex multiple times by now, you prude loser.

  Go fuck yourself.

  We’ve been doing that for a year and a half already. It’s getting old.

  “All right, here we are,” Baker says, driving into a small parking lot surrounded by a chain-link fence, and ending the catfight between the angel and devil on my shoulders.

  Looking out the front window as he turns off the engine, I see a small sign on the building in front of us, stating it’s the employee parking lot for the Shedd Aquarium, and I smile. I brought Lincoln here once when he won free passes at school for a reading contest. It was the week the divorce was final, I was feeling particularly sorry for myself, and missing home so much
I cried every time Lincoln wasn’t in the room. That day at the aquarium, being around so many animals, I smiled and I laughed and I forgot about feeling sorry for myself.

  As we get out of the Jeep, it’s not until I close the door that I realize what time it is.

  “Wait, the aquarium closes at six,” I say, as Baker grabs my hand and laces his fingers through mine, tugging me toward an old, rusted, aluminum door in the middle of the building.

  “I know,” is all he replies, squeezing my hand as we walk side by side up to the door, and Baker pounds his fist three times against it.

  While we stand here under the glow of a bright, florescent security light hanging off the building above us, I glance over at Baker and smile again when I see he grabbed the small, pink, drawstring bag holding my bathing suit and towel that I’d tossed down by my feet as soon as I’d gotten in the Jeep. My bag is hanging over his shoulder, along with a black Nike backpack that I’m assuming holds his things.

  He grabbed my bag before he grabbed my hand. I officially have hearts in my eyes.

  And now he’s pounding on a creepy metal door, where I’m waiting for a tiny window to open, and a man with a cigar will ask for a password, and Baker will reply, “Unicorning,” and then I’ll have a good laugh, because I know unicorning means when you strap a dildo to your head and charge full speed ahead into a pleasure cave of your choosing.

  You have no idea the horrors I’ve heard in the things I transcribe.

  Baker has chosen an underground sex dungeon as the location of our first official date. My nerves should be shot right now, because this is how every horror movie starts. Sadly, as I hear the door creek open, the butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach are because I can’t stop thinking about Baker tying me up in a dark, dusty room, stripping me naked, and putting his mouth on—

 

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