But I’ve seen this look on her face before, this murderous look.
She’s hangry, and I’m late to our date night.
“Right this way,” the hostess says, walking us through the crowded restaurant. She brings us to a table right next to the kitchen. It’s less than ideal but I know I’m the reason we’re seated in the back, away from anything exciting. “Your waiter will be with you shortly.” She tosses the menus on the table and leaves.
“God, she’s rude,” Monica says, fluffing her hair after she takes off her jacket and hangs it on the back of her chair. As a waiter passes, she grabs him by the arm and points at our empty table. “Can we get some bread and olive oil please? I might die if I don’t eat something soon.”
“Sure thing,” the man with the kind eyes says and walks away.
“I’m sorry.” I cringe and scoot my chair in. “I was stuck on the phone with my lawyer. She’s a talker.”
“You know it’s because she charges you by the minute, right?”
“Well aware. I got her bill the other day and nearly choked on my own tongue. She’s expensive.”
“As all good lawyers are.” The waiter sets two glasses of water in front of us and a loaf of hot Italian bread followed by some olive oil to dip it into. “You’re an angel. Thank you.”
He gives her a wink and then takes off.
“Don’t flirt with the waiter, you’re married.”
“He brought me food. I would flirt with a cow at this point if it pointed its udder in my mouth and squirted.” She rips a piece of bread from the loaf and dips it in the olive oil, then shoves the entire thing in her mouth. Leaning back in her chair, she moans and grips the table while she chews. “Thank the good Lord for such meager rations. I would have taken anything at this point.” Finishing chewing, she swallows and helps herself to another piece while asking, “Okay, tell me. How did the date go?”
“Well . . . he bit me.”
Monica pauses, bread lifted to her mouth. “Excuse me?”
Casually, I tear myself a bite as well and swirl it in the oil. “You heard me correctly. He bit me.”
“Like . . . bit your nipple in a passionate make-out session?”
I shake my head. “Nope. All clothes were on. He bit my shoulder.”
Looking more confused than ever, Monica twirls her finger around when she says, “You’re going to have to rewind and slowly explain to me what happened.”
Exhaling my frustration from being thrown into the dating world again, I say, “He seemed really nice when we were chatting through the app.”
“As all of them do.”
“So when he asked me out to coffee this morning, I thought—”
“Why aren’t you working?” Monica asks with a pointed look. “Men who want coffee midday aren’t catches; it should be a red flag. Why aren’t they working?”
“He said he was self-employed.”
“Doing what?”
I bite my bottom lip in shame. “In between ideas he said.”
Monica rolls his eyes. “Red flag, should have left then.”
“I know, but I felt bad. I mean, he could very well be between ideas.”
“That’s not even a viable—” Monica takes a calming breath and waves her hand in my direction. “I’m getting heated, please continue.”
Ever since I told Monica that my marriage was over because Ansel cheated, she’s made it her mission to reassure me that I’m going to find someone better, someone hotter, someone with more muscles, and someone with a bigger dick. As best friends do. And it will be a dick so big that it scares me at first but then turns into the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Her words, not mine.
And to be honest, I wouldn’t mind a bigger dick, but what I really want is someone to appreciate me for who I am, not the person they want me to be.
You’re going to find someone amazing.
Ansel is going to regret ever cheating on you.
You deserve so much better than him.
He wasn’t even that attractive in the first place; you totally settled.
It took him two years to figure out how to make you come on his tongue.
That last one was true, but we were middle school sweethearts. He’s the only guy I’ve ever been with. We fumbled around together, trying to figure out the whole sex thing, so yeah, it took us a little while to get it right, but we did. And it was . . . nice.
According to Monica, “nice” isn’t how you should describe sex. Nice is how you describe your father’s Christmas Eve sweater, not a passionate romp with your husband. Maybe that should have been clue number one that we weren’t going to be together forever.
“The conversation was good, we were joking about different things. He seems a little predatory though, because when he sat down, he sat next to me rather than across.”
Monica stabs the table with her finger. “Red flag.”
“And he kept shifting his hand over his crotch.”
“Red flag.” She dips her bread.
“And when I said I liked Panera, he agreed with a passion I’ve never seen before.”
Monica nearly pops out of her chair as she scarily points at me. “Red flag. No man should ever openly like Panera with passion.”
“Yeah, I should have stopped there, because that’s when things started to turn the corner into really weird and this man might be a psycho.”
She jabs the table passionately. “I will say it to the day I die. Any man who openly says he enjoys Panera is a psychopath.” Not the first time Monica has gone on this rant. “Of course, they like it. Panera is impossible to hate especially when Fall rolls around and their autumn squash soup is advertised all over the GD store, you can’t help but be in love.” She dabs her mouth with her napkin. “The man you need to find is the man who pretends to hate Panera and then when you suggest it, he groans but secretly dances like a little girl inside over the prospect of dipping a crusty baguette in soup for dinner.”
“He was openly in love with Panera.”
She shrugs and leans back. “Psycho. Simple. So how did this turn into him biting you?”
“Well, once we started talking about Panera, I think I made an off-hand comment about Panera being my love language.”
“God, you’re flirting is downright embarrassing.”
“I’m not good at this,” I groan, knowing full well how terrible I am at flirting. “I’ve known one man my whole life. I didn’t have to flirt. So I might say weird things like Panera is my love language, which in return will result in the guy speaking closely into my ear and whispering things like ‘Fuji apple chicken salad’, ‘broccoli cheddar soup’, and ‘Baja grain bowl.’”
Monica’s eyes widen. “He didn’t.”
I nod. “He did. He whispered things from the menu into my ear, down my neck and when he muttered ‘chipotle chicken avocado melt,’ he groaned and then bit my shoulder.”
“Dear Jesus.” Monica shakes her head. “Please tell me you bolted after that.”
“Faked a call from Jason. Got up and left.” Unsure if I want to show her but also questioning if I should get an emergency vaccine shot or something, I lean forward over the table and move my shirt to the side, exposing my shoulder. “He left bite marks. Should I be concerned?”
Monica, the good friend that she is, snorts and covers her mouth before leaning forward and examining the bite mark. Chuckling, she shakes her head. “Didn’t break skin, you’re fine.”
Relieved, I lean back in my chair again and push my hand through my hair, tousling it to the side. “Dating sucks.”
“It’s really wretched.”
“What’s even worse is that I’m a twenty-six-year-old divorcee. It doesn’t seem to win me any matches on the dating app.”
“What do you mean, win you matches? Did you put that you’re divorced in your profile?”
“Yeah,” I say cautiously, then watch Monica gear up for another lecture.
“Are you insane? Most people our ag
e don’t even know what marriage is, they’re still stuck dancing with their heads up their asses, a beer in each hand, trying to figure out the meaning of life. Marriage is not a word they speak of. Therefore, you can’t have divorce in your profile. Hello . . . red flag.”
“Enough with the red flags,” I groan. “I’d like to see you try this whole dating thing.”
Holding her chin high, she says, “Thankfully I don’t need to.”
“Yes,” I say quietly. “You’re very lucky.”
Monica’s face falls as the realization of what she said hits her. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”
“I know, I know,” I say. Monica really has my best interests at heart. “Your relationship with Freddie is inspiring and sweet and when you’re together, it’s really nice watching how much you love each other. I think it was like that with me and Ansel at first, but then something changed.”
“And be glad that you saw that change before things went further between you two.” She leans over and takes her hand in mine. “I know it’s hard, sweetie, and I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in your shoes, but—”
“What would you do?” I ask, curious.
“What do you mean?”
“If you were in my shoes, what would you do? And be honest, because we’ve been separated for over eight months now, so the divorce is almost signed and done. I’m about to be free . . . what would you do?”
She runs her tongue over the corner of her mouth and gives her answer some thought, her eyes staying on mine the entire time.
“Honestly?”
I nod. “Honestly.”
“Okay.” She shifts in her chair and crosses one leg over the other. “If I were in your shoes, I’d have fun.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Like, play around with different guys?”
She shakes her head. “No. Please don’t have sex with a bunch of guys, because that’s not who you are. But I wouldn’t be on all those dating apps looking for your next husband. You need to date, enjoy the idea of dating, get to know people, and if you find someone who you think would be worthy of taking your pants off for, let it happen. You’re putting too much pressure on yourself to find the perfect man. You’ve had sex with one guy. Test the waters a little, see what else is out there. Find someone who genuinely makes you smile and then, ask to see his penis.”
I chuckle and twirl my water glass. “That easy, huh?”
“You know what I mean. You need to learn to not be attached. To not think as a married person. Loosen up and allow yourself to meet and enjoy other people.”
“Okay.” I nod. “I can do that.”
Chapter Four
NATALIE
Wine in hand, pajama pants on, bra chucked into the hamper at least two hours ago, I’m enjoying relaxing with one of my recorded Hallmark Christmas movies playing in the background. It’s practically impossible to keep up with all of them in real time so even though it’s after Christmas, I still watch them. I’m a romantic at heart, after all.
I curl up on my couch and open the dating app I’ve found the most success on, and when I say the most success, I mean, I haven’t been sent a multitude of cock pictures, or guys jacking off. I just don’t understand, why does anyone want a boomerang of a stranger’s penis ejaculating on his hairy legs? I will never get that. Are there any women out there who say, yes please, more of that? If so, I’d like to have a frank conversation with them and hear why that’s sexy and a turn-on.
Taking a large gulp of my wine, I open the first message.
Jordan (32) – Go Jets. Don’t smoke but prefer smoke shows.
Insert eye-roll here.
Jordan: Hey beautiful. Any pictures of you from the neck down? Would love to see your tits.
Looks like Jordan just found his way to my deleted bin. Pervert.
Hank (30) – Favorite pastime: jiggling the gear shift in my car.
I blink a few times. Hank . . . you need a life. I read his message anyway. It’s a picture of him next to his car and underneath it says, “Want a ride?”
Nope.
No, I really don’t.
Thank you . . . next—as Ariana would say.
Ken (28) – Nothing beats microwave popcorn, unless it’s stove pop, then you win.
Okay, Ken, that’s kind of cute. I open his message.
Ken: I saw you like to binge on Netflix original series. Do you eat popcorn during those binges?
Finding common ground, I can appreciate his efforts. I decide to type back, keeping my options open like Monica said. He’s not necessarily waxing poetic to me by talking about popcorn, but at least it’s better than a picture of a man’s hairy crotch.
Natalie: I dabble in a bowl of popcorn here and there. I’d say Orville is my favorite. Perfect combination of salt and fake butter.
Ken: This might be too soon, but . . . will you marry me?
I chuckle and type back, trying my best at being witty.
Natalie: I’m going to have to see a ring first.
Ken: How’s this?
A picture takes a few minutes to come in but when it does, I yelp as a giant penis comes on screen with a cock ring hugging the root of it.
“Come on,” I groan and exit out of the app. That’s when I realize I was on the wrong one. Well, that would explain things.
Pulling up the other app that allows me to approach the men, there’s a message in the corner. I take another gulp of wine and open the message. It’s from a guy named Lennox. Before I read the message, I click on his profile to refresh my memory.
Oh yes, thirty-three, has a dog, boxer to be specific, works in construction, and believes he’s the only guy in the city who is neither a Bobbies nor a Rebels fan. I thought that was funny. I go back to his message and see that he’s online as well.
Lennox: Bobbie for life, I can’t believe I matched up with a Bobbie fan. Doesn’t anyone in this city care about the Dallas Stars?
Natalie: I do, actually. I care because with their losing record, they make it easy for the Bobbies to sweep them every series.
Lennox: Ouch, that hurts. Don’t worry, next year is our year.
Natalie: That’s what they always say.
Lennox: Last time I saw, the Bobbies didn’t make it past the first round of playoffs.
Natalie: It’s okay, next year is our year.
Lennox: LOL! All right, you hooked me. Want to meet up for coffee tomorrow? Around ten?
Mid-morning coffee. I can hear Monica waving her hands in my face screaming red flag, red flag. But he seems charming. Should I really discredit him because he wants to meet in the middle of a workday? I decide to be honest with him.
Natalie: My friend said men who can meet during the workday are men I shouldn’t be talking to.
Lennox: Your friend is right. But I own my own construction company, so I make my own hours. What about you? Should I be concerned about you not being at work?
Natalie: Work at home for a non-profit.
I don’t say which non-profit, because the last thing I want is for men to find out who my brother is. I don’t want Jason to be the winning factor about my profile, I want it to be me.
Lennox: So we are both employed with flexibility. What do you say?
Smiling, I type him back.
Natalie: You have yourself a coffee date.
* * *
Why did I show up so early?
Fifteen minutes early to be exact? I brought my iPad to get some work done while I waited, but still, I ended up buying my own drink that I’m nursing and is starting to lose its heat. Poor time management on my end.
I glance at the time and see that he’s a minute late. If he stands me up, I will find his construction company and burn it to the ground. Gas and fire, poof—
The door to the coffee shop opens and Lennox steps inside wearing form-fitting jeans, a leather jacket, and a winter hat. He glances around the shop, scanning the patrons, and when he turns toward me, I wave my hand frantically to catch
his attention . . . and then remind myself to play it cool. No reason to flash a freak flag right off the bat.
As he walks toward me, I feel his eyes studying me, taking me in.
I didn’t want to look like I got dolled up for the date, but I also didn’t want to look like a woof bag, so I put on light makeup, left my hair straight, but pinned the top half back, and I wore a black long-sleeved shirt with skinny jeans and black boots. Cute but casual.
When he reaches the table, he places his hands on the back of the chair across from me and allows his eyes to continue to roam over me.
Feeling slightly self-conscious, I say, “You must be Lennox.”
He nods, and that’s when I take in the crookedness of his nose, kind of like a charming Owen Wilson crookedness. His eyes are brown, rather than the bright blue in his pictures. Okay, that’s clearly deceiving, and he’s freshly shaven, which makes him look way younger than his stated thirty-three years.
Was he lying about that, just like his eyes?
“Yes, and you’re Natalie?”
I twist my hands together under the table and nod as he gives me one more once-over, eyes glossing over my hair, my cheekbones, my breasts. There’s a pinch in his brow and I can’t decipher if it’s a pinch from confusion or disappointment. I’ve never been assessed like this before, as if I’m a piece of meat or a fish being sold over the counter, the buyer making sure it’s the best he can purchase for his family.
After what seems like forever, he shakes his head and sticks his hands in the pockets of his jacket and says, “I’m not going to waste my time, or yours for that matter.”
“What do you mean?”
The Trade Page 4
