My eyes lit up with fire, my lips pursed, and I balled my fists, my nails digging into my palm.
She must have seen my fury. “Granted, he should’ve asked you, definitely. There, he was a jerk.”
“A fucking douchebag.”
“Right,” she acknowledged, “and you’d every right to walk out on him, but for the future, if you talk about it beforehand, you might want to give it a try.”
I was shaking my head. “Don’t you feel like you’re not enough then? That you’re not really turning the other person on?”
“In your situation last night, yeah,” she agreed. “That guy definitely has some problems, probably an addiction. Turning it on in the middle of a make-out session—that’s weird. But, if you watch it beforehand, it can help get the juices going, you know? There’s a reason why sex sells. People want it. Not just lonely, depressed men, either. It can be very arousing in the right context.”
“Ugh! I don’t want to go through it again. I’m fucking done.”
“You can’t be done, Maci. What about the hunt for Mr. Right?”
“Mr. Right? Mr. Right doesn’t exist,” I growled. I lay back down into my pillow. “It was a dream and that dream is dead.” I didn’t even mention the fact that I saw Vince with another woman at the movie theater seconds before Andre invited me back to his place. Wearing a dazzling blue dress that stopped just below her butt, she showed off her slender legs, her mocha-brown skin practically glowing with perfection. After she’d leaned up and kissed his cheek was when I decided to accept Andre’s offer, flushed with anger and surprise. For some reason, out of all that had happened last night, seeing that kiss stung the most.
“Hey, come on. It’s not as bad as you think,” she said, rubbing my back again. “I’ll invite Ashley and Bridgett over, and when you’re done with this pity party, we’ll have some ice cream and watch Forgetting Sarah Marshall. That’ll cheer you up, I know it.”
She gave me a few reassuring pats, then left me in the dark, as I indulged in self-pity.
“SO, YOU’RE JUST GOING to ignore all the messages you get?” Bridgett asked a week later as we sat in the office.
“Yep,” I replied, leaning back in my chair. Work had absorbed me all week, and I did little else, except fill out crosswords while drinking Split Shot Espresso Milk Stout with Colby-Jack warming my lap.
“Why don’t you just delete your profile?” She cocked an eye at me. “Doesn’t that make more sense?”
I was staring at the cat’s eye marble on my desk. “You’ve got a point.” I straightened, pulled out the keyboard, and brought up my NorthwestMingle profile. My inbox blinked at me, saying Hey! Click here, you have twenty-seven unread messages. I navigated to the first deletion point.
“You’re really going to do it? Give up?”
Her shocked tone gave me pause. “What if I am?”
“That doesn’t sound like you, Maci,” she said. “You’re a go-getter, not a quitter. You’re the one who convinced me to start up this place with all that I had. You’re the one who wouldn’t let me drop out of OCI. You’ve always been the aggressive, doesn’t-take-any-shit-from-anyone personality, but lately, I don’t know, you . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Well . . . you just seem like you’ve lost your confidence, and it hurts to see you like this because you’re so spirited, so strong, and young. Too young to be giving up on relationships.”
“I keep trying, Bridgett, but they keep knocking me down. You can only take so much.”
“Hey, I know that better than anyone,” she said, walking over to me and sitting on the edge of my desk with only half her butt. “After Jake left, I felt like it was all over. And you’ll probably be knocked down a dozen more times, but in the end, I think you’ll find Mr. Right just like you’ve always talked about. You just gotta keep getting back up. I mean, I really don’t see you as an old, lonely grouch, do you?”
I took a moment and reflected on her question. The wave of bad dates had taken their toll on me, but she was right, I believed in love too much to let the ideal slip through my fingers. “No, I don’t, but it’s starting to look like my future,” I said, half-joking.
She glared at me, but it quickly changed into a silly smile. “Give the online dating one more shot, please, for me.”
Her big, begging eyes prevailed. “Fine. One more, but I’m telling you, after that, I’m done.”
“One more may be all you need,” she replied. She scooted off my desk and took over my keyboard and mouse. “Let’s take a look at your pursuers.” Clicking on the inbox icon, she scrolled through the list of messages. “This one sounds good.” She opened up a message from Sir-Do-A-Lot. His profile flabbergasted me so much that I concluded there was no way he was real.
I regained mouse control and browsed for myself. “I was thinking something more like this. I clicked on HereForYou. His faultless profile promised a high compatibility.
“Sure, he looks nice, but can he get the job done like Sir-Do-A-Lot?” she laughed. “You still have that goal, don’t you? To have an orgasm?”
I banged my head against my desk. “Oy.”
“Love and orgasms.” She patted my back. “Right?”
I ignored her comment. “How should I reply?” I opened up his message and read it a second time.
“Tell him you’ll agree only if he’ll bone you.”
“God, Bridgett!”
She smiled. “And buy you flowers, of course.”
I shook my head. “You’re just like Danielle, you know that?”
“That’s because we’re trying to help you,” she said, her smile widening. “You gotta break out of your old shell.”
“What should I say?” I bore a serious, no-nonsense face. She yielded and helped me write out a response that agreed to meet HereForYou Saturday night for dinner. He was my last shot. If he fell through, I was resigned to throw in the towel.
DAVID, WHO WENT BY HereForYou on NorthwestMingle, lived on the eastside, so we settled on HUB—Hopworks Urban Brewery—for dinner. He was into craft brewing, which meant he was one up on the last three guys. Saturday night arrived and I had frantically gone through my entire closet in search of an outfit. Danielle and Ashley were out, leaving me without any backup opinions. My New Year’s resolution was turning into an utter failure. I found my tightest pair of jeans in the dryer and they fit just the way I wanted. I paired them with a green sweater and a patterned scarf.
I drove Eddie down into the lower parking lot and talked myself up in the rearview mirror. I kept repeating, last chance, last chance. About six minutes late, I found myself sitting alone at the bar. He wasn’t as punctual as the last three, but I didn’t dwell on that since I had no room to talk.
Twenty minutes passed. My nerves were amped up from the wait, and I had downed a 7-Grain Stout in an attempt to attenuate them, but to no avail. I guess I didn’t like waiting. At thirty minutes, I got up to leave when a slender man walked up to me, and said, “Maci?”
“Uh—yeah, I’m Maci.”
“It’s me, David,” he said, as if I should recognize him.
“Oh, I’m not the best at faces, sorry,” I lied. The truth was I hadn’t had any food to go with my stout and he was a little fuzzy from the alcohol.
“No worries,” he said. “Sorry about my late arrival. My car died and I had to bum a ride from a friend.”
His story sounded genuine, and he did make the effort to get here, so I gave him a chance despite my irritation. He was tall, dark, and handsome—and my last chance.
The meal went well, just as it had with Andre, which said little about where the night was heading. Our conversation never lagged, and David was engaging to talk with, even more so than Andre. He wasn’t wealthy like Andre, but he possessed a certain charm that intrigued me, and I found it hard to take my eyes off him. He had scorching brown eyes, short styled hair, and a rugged face that pulled me in.
“Would you mind giving me a lift home?” he asked, apologetic
ally.
“Sure,” I answered, putting on a seductive smile, hoping he’d catch on. I was ready to move past Ryan, and David had won me over. “My car is down below.”
He lived close enough that Eddie’s heater never kicked in, which could take twenty-five minutes sometimes. The apartment complex was large with assigned parking, but he directed me to a guest spot. We sat in the cold as Eddie idled. “So, would you like to come in and watch a movie?” he asked, his eyes twinkling under the parking lamps, his voice heady. It was obvious he didn’t plan on watching any movie.
I gave him a seductive smile that said I got the cue. “I’d love to.”
DREAMING OF VINCE, HIS hands roaming all over my body, I woke with a start, gasping. I scanned the apartment from the couch as a million images from the night before flooded my mind: the awkward fumbling, gross sex talk, and David passing out soon afterwards. Oy, what a night! I checked my phone. 8:23. Goddammit. Twenty-three again—why did that number haunt me so? If David was awake, he was being curiously silent. Heading for the bathroom, I glanced inside his room and spotted him sprawled out, ass up, half his sheets hanging off the bed. He probably still had the condom on.
What a disappointment.
It seemed I was destined to never experience the fabled orgasm . . .
I got in and out of the bathroom as fast as possible, finding Eddie in the morning light. I didn’t even linger to do a second search for misplaced things. If I’d left something there, it was gone forever, since there was no way in hell I would be returning.
Without a shower, I opted to stay out of sight of the customers for most of the day. The computer system was still in development. I gave up after a dismal hour. I chose to get creative and mix it up in the kitchen, producing limited specials for the day. The variation proved a great distraction.
Bridgett found my story stupendously entertaining and bizarre. “So, let me get this right,” she said, sitting in her office chair after four, our closing time. “He wanted you to call him his dirty little girl while doing it?”
“Yes, his dirty little girl,” I replied, rolling the gym marble from hand to hand across my desk. “Weird, right?”
“Not necessarily.” She leaned back and kicked up her feet so that they rested on her desk. “Dirty talk can be very arousing.”
“He wanted me to be his little girl,” I emphasized again. “‘Little,’ as in he’s a pedophile and wants little girls.” I shivered at the thought. “Not ‘dirty girl,’ not ‘his nasty girl,’ or any variation like that, but his ‘dirty little girl.’”
“Well, when you say it like that, sure, it sounds pretty bad.” She shifted her weight, switching her feet around. “But maybe that’s not what he meant.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I snapped. “It was a turnoff.”
“But you slept there,” she remarked.
“He doesn’t know that,” I said. “I was too tired and too intoxicated to drive home. The night couldn’t have gotten worse.”
She chuckled, finding the tale too humorous. “Well, I’m sorry it didn’t work out. Does that mean you’re done with the pursuit of Mr. Right?”
“It means I’m taking an indefinite break, yeah.”
“Do you want to get drinks?”
“What, now?” I glanced at the wall clock. It was only a quarter past four.
“No, silly, not now. In an hour or so? I’ve gotta go home and change, and by the looks of it, so do you.”
“Oh I most definitely need to change . . . and shower . . . and completely disinfect myself from the whole nightmare that has been the last few weeks.” I stopped the marble and placed it in a special compartment in the main drawer. I didn’t understand what my fascination was with the object that nearly broke my neck, but every time I saw and touched it, I felt a peculiar tingle deep inside me. “Anyway, I think I’ll pass.”
“Oh come on, I could use a wingwoman.”
“Don’t you have Clara for that?” Clara was Bridgett’s older sister, still single, and still as hyper as a four-year-old on a sugar rush.
“No,” Bridgett said, shaking her head in grief. “She found a boyfriend last week and is completely smitten. She’s saying he’s the one.”
“Ah, sorry you lost her,” I said half-heartedly. “Maybe I’ll come out next time.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.” She rocked herself to her feet. “You going to be here much longer?”
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“All right, well, lock everything up. I did the upstairs.”
“Will do,” I said by way of parting. She left me alone in the office, staring out the window. A knock on the doorframe stirred me from my idleness.
“All done, Ms. Goodwin,” Marcella said, one of the servers who regularly worked the closing shift. She was only a couple of years younger than I was.
I nodded at her. “Thanks, Marcella. And you don’t have to call me Ms. Goodwin,” I told her. “You can just call me Maci—it’s fine. You can call Ms. Greenfield ‘Bridgett,’ too. We don’t care.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll remember that. See ya later.” She waved nervously, as if I were some big-shot executive.
I gave her a warm smile. “Have a good night.” I went from room to room and turned off the main lights, locked up, then decided to walk over to Powell’s to see what Danielle was up to. I had texted her in the early afternoon, but she never replied, which was odd since only rare circumstances kept Danielle from her phone. The walk was cold, the overcast dreary. It reflected my feelings well.
If Danielle worked on Sundays, she usually worked at the Hawthorne branch. I was hoping today wasn’t one of those strange schedules. To my luck, she was in the back, at the desk she used when she worked there. “Knock, knock,” I said, tapping on the door with my knuckles.
“Maci, hey,” she said in an exhausted, strained voice.
“You all right? You look dead.” I walked in and sat in a vacant chair.
“Yeah, just tired . . . didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Ashley and I got in a stupid fight about how many layers the cake should have.” She hung her head. “I know, I know . . .”
“Layers, really?” I grinned at her.
“Don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson,” she muttered. She yawned, a great, powerful yawn. “What about you? How’d your date go?”
I relived the night and the excruciating finale, supplying all the details. “You know what you need?” Danielle started after I finished.
Oh, God. Another lecture. I tilted my head, preparing myself. “I’m sure I’m about to find out.”
“You need to find out what you like,” she advised, “sexually, I mean. You should go browse the Human Sexuality section and find something on women’s sexuality and exploration, or something like that.”
I sighed and rubbed my face with both hands. “Why is everyone telling me to change my sexuality—gah! It’s getting ridiculous.”
“All right, don’t. It was just a suggestion.” She turned her attention back to the papers before her. “You want to get dinner at U-Brew? I should be done in about an hour.” It was clear she was also fed up with hearing me complain about her counsel.
“Sure, I’ll see you at home,” I said, shutting the door as I left. In front of the office, I passed the sign that pointed out the small Human Sexuality section and paused. Maybe she was right. Maybe they were all right. Maybe I needed to open up more, try new things, see what I liked and didn’t like, and maybe a book would help with that. It would be private. No one would have to know.
I whirled around and gazed at the titles on the shelf. For Yourself: The Fulfillment of Female Sexuality stood out, along with Secrets of the Sexually Satisfied Woman, and I compared the two with a diligent eye. After heavy consideration, I was leaning toward Secrets, then—
“Maci?” someone said behind me.
Startled, I dropped the books, flushing. I jumped around
and saw Vince standing there with his warm brown eyes reading my reaction.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, bending down to retrieve the fallen books.
I panicked and shot down to get there first. Our heads clashed as I fought to collect the books. Too late, he was already holding one in his hands as his butt hit the floor. Oh, God! How can I get out of this alive?
He groaned from the encounter but launched to his feet before I could gather my senses, offering me a steady hand. I gazed up at him, my cheeks on fire. “You all right?” he asked, pulling me up.
I smiled, but it was faint and uncomfortable. “I’m—yeah, I’m okay. Sorry about your head.” I rubbed my stinging forehead where it felt like a bruise was forming.
He ran his long, sexy fingers through his curls and smiled. “Oh, it’s nothing.” His eyes concentrated on the book for the first time and his cheeks went crimson. “Here’s your reading material.” His voice turned hoarse and shy.
I practically tore the book from his grip, despite my mother always chiding me as a child to be polite. I thought politeness didn’t apply in this circumstance. My face felt like a furnace, and I noticed the first beads of sweat sliding down my unwashed forehead. I quickly wiped them away, acting as if the collision had caused them instead of my embarrassment. “Thanks,” I said, my voice cracking.
We stood there, falling into a lethally awkward pause. “So,” he said, in an attempt to get the conversation moving again. “How come you had to rush out of the gym the other day?”
“Trouble at work,” I lied, not knowing what to make up. Work trouble seemed a real enough answer.
“Ah,” he said, sounding as though he could relate. “And where do you work?”
“Just down the street at Friends Bakery and Brunch House. I co-own the place with a friend.”
“Oh, I’ve never been.” He shuffled from foot to foot. Was it me or something else causing his nervousness? I couldn’t tell . . .
Chasing The O Page 7
