by Sarina Bowen
“I do,” she agrees.
“You always have to be in control of every situation!”
“I know. It’s a sickness.”
“STOP AGREEING WITH ME!” I scream.
“Okay.”
I lunge, but Sadie reaches between us and catches my hands. “Take a deep breath.”
“But…”
“Ash,” Sadie orders. “Apologize for bringing Brynn here under false pretenses.”
“I’m sorry,” Ash says immediately. “I should have told you he was coming. But you need to go in there.”
“Not happening!” I argue, shaking off Sadie’s grasp.
“You’re going to sit down with him and—”
“No. Nooooo!”
“—lick his testicles.”
That stops me.
I mean, that’s just not something someone says out loud.
Sadie snorts.
“I am not…licking…his…God!” I sorta like this idea. I’ve eaten cow testicles and they’re pretty tasty.
But I digress.
My face is burning. Maybe it is actually on fire, and I am three seconds away from ending up in the Guinness Book of World Records as the sorry single woman who spontaneously combusted outside a tiki bar. Not cool.
“Brynn, goddamn it!” Ash really does sound sort of pissed at me.
Although, it could be low blood sugar. We’ve been shopping for hours, and they have great appetizers here. I can almost hear the pupu platter calling my name.
“He wants to see you. Braht said he’s pining over you. Pining! Do you know how rare that is? Sadie! Tell her!”
Sadie nods. “As rare as having a third nipple.”
“See?” Ash says. “Fuck. I want to be pined over. But nooooo! All I can seem to get is fucking Braht trying to stick his tongue in my ear.”
“Are you sure it’s his tongue?” Sadie asks.
“Ewwwww!” Ash and I say. But it’s also really funny, and we all laugh for a minute.
Then I cross my arms over my new, improved chest, still unwilling to be conned. But secretly (secretly!) I’ve been pining too. Maybe. Or maybe it was closer to obsessing, but I’ve really been trying not to be creepy. “I thought you told me that if I was attracted to a guy it was a red flag and I should stay away.”
“I did say that,” Sadie admits. “But this is not someone you would normally be attracted to. This is the exception that proves the rule.”
Damn it. “I don’t know,” I hedge. “You told me to fuck someone, and I did. But if I walk in there right now, that’s dating. That wasn’t part of the plan.”
Ash looks at me like I have something weird sprouting from my forehead. “Are you blind? This sort of man doesn’t come around very often. Did you see his muscles? Did you not say that was the most amazing moment of your life? Did you not make Sadie and I mad with jealousy?”
“I was a little jealous,” Sadie admitted. “The only sexual adventures Decker and I have had is we once had sex in the spare bedroom. On top of the duvet.” There’s a pause here because what do you say to that? I’m sorry?
“Okay. Right. So. Maybe it’s just…just…just…” I really can’t finish that sentence. I’m not actively trying to be annoying. But I’m feeling cornered. I try to wiggle the truth free. “I just don’t know if I’m ready.”
It’s the closest to the truth I can get. I really don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. I don’t know if I’m ready to put myself out there again and risk not being attractive enough, or funny enough, or hot enough, or just plain enough enough.
I wasn’t enough for Steven. Why would I be enough for a man like Tom? A man so manly that he probably flosses with beaver fur. Then I sort of laugh because I just thought of a beaver and beavers always make me laugh. Beeeeaaaver. Furry beavers. Snort!
To cover up the snort, I quickly say, “Okay.”
“Okay?” Ash asks.
“Fine! Okay, okay? I’ll go. But you guys are going too, right?”
Ash and Sadie look at each other. “Of course we are,” Ash says slowly.
“Are you guys pulling another fast one on me?”
“No,” Sadie says slowly. “We’ll go too. It won’t be awkward at all, having us along on your date. With your hot gardener.”
“Did I ever tell you about his man-hands?” I ask.
“His man hands?” Sadie asks.
“They were a little dirty. He had dirty Man Hands.” I don’t know why I’m saying this out loud. “They were big and rough. Callused. Like, I don’t know, like he actually worked for a living. Like he sweat for a living. They were masculine hands. And he’d just been digging in the dirt so he smelled a little earthy. Dirty-man earthy. He moved them over me and it was like he could hold all of me and still handle more.” I realize I’m in the midst of a monologue and Ash and Sadie are just staring at me.
“Man Hands,” Ash whispers.
“Filthy, dirty Man Hands,” Sadie says.
I nod because, frankly, I’m too turned on to speak.
“I want to get me some of those,” Ash says. I think Sadie just gulps.
13 Welcome Aboard the Titanic
Tom
Hypothetically, let’s just say you’re on the Titanic. You’ve helped all the women and children onto lifeboats because that’s the kind of guy you are. Those boats are sailing away into the cold night. You’re left on the ship, and it’s going down. What kind of friend would you want with you at this moment?
I’ll tell you one thing. It sure as fuck isn’t Braht.
For one, he talks too much. Two, he’d have finagled his way onto one of those lifeboats and stolen your identity. Three, because…
Fuck this long metaphor.
Three, because when the woman you fucked in the boathouse shows up at the tiki bar, your friend and hers make a hasty exit, leaving you alone to sink slowly down to the bottom of the ocean.
Here’s how it goes down. At seven on the dot, Braht and I show up. Then three women appear: Ash, the realtor who Braht can’t stop eye-fucking, Sadie, a soft and poet-looking woman, and…holy shit…Brynn. Brynn the great. The round. The beautiful. Brynn in another wrap dress that I know I can have her out of with one simple tug of that little bow on her side.
They show up. We fumble through introductions, then Braht, that fucker, takes Ash and Sadie by the elbow and they all just leave. They waltz off without even ordering a drink or offering an explanation. And I’m standing there, and Brynn is standing there, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to kiss her or hug her or do a head nod and ’sup.
Titanic. Me on board. Sinking.
Fucking Braht.
We eye each other nervously for a moment, and then she extends a fist. I look at her in confusion.
“Let’s just pound this out,” she says with this awkward grin. Fuck, do I ever want to pound. Then I realize what she’s talking about. I tap my fist to hers. Then we both laugh. We laugh because it’s so uncomfortable that the only options are to laugh or take off running, and I’m not going to bail on her.
Unfortunately, I can’t really speak in sentences. I was inside this woman last week. Just standing beside her is making me crazy. I want to be inside her again, this second. But people would stare.
“Now,” I say, and my face immediately turns red. If my producer could see me right now, he’d rip up my contract. I’m paid seven figures to be smooth on TV, and yet I just said “now” for no apparent reason. “Um,” I try again. “Let’s sit and order some drinks. I could use one. Could you?”
I think I covered that up real nice. Real, real smooth.
We sit. She looks around at the bamboo flooring, the bamboo walls, the fake palms on the ceiling. The twinkle lights. There’s a mural of the ocean, and it’s so dark in here it feels like the middle of the night. I swear they have fans that blow around tropical flower smells. Or maybe that’s just the scent of her hair.
“Did Braht pick the place?” she asks. “He has a thing for tiki stuff.”
<
br /> “He hates it,” I say.
“But his party? Didn’t he have that Beachbum guy there?”
“Ah. Beachbum Berry. Yeah. I flew him in. I’m sort of… I’m sort of obsessed with tiki culture. I’ve been all over the world and—” I stop because she looks kind of green. “Are you okay?”
“Wait,” she says. “Wait! You hired Beachbum Berry? That was your party? That was your house?”
I laugh. “Well, I wouldn’t fuck you in just anybody’s boathouse. I bought the house last fall and did some renovations. I’ve got a lot of work to do on the basement—”
I stop again because her green hue is turning red. Merry Christmas! Is she breathing? I push a glass of water her way. She drinks.
“I…uh…you?” She can’t seem to speak. Maybe it’s a stroke. What the fuck is the thing you’re supposed to do when someone’s having a stroke? No, I’m just overreacting. I do that lately. It’s why I’ve taken a break from women, and my show.
Luckily, the waitress comes over to save us from this conversation. She’s wearing a Hawaiian dress and there’s a flower in her hair that looks exactly like a labia with its clitoris all glistening. “Two mai tais.” I stammer, eyes down. What did I tell you? Me. Titanic. Going down. That fucker, Braht. It’s all his fault.
Brynn’s hand is on her chest. Touching the tops of her rounded breasts—her authentic, not-enhanced, rounded breasts that I just want to lay my head on and watch the clouds go by. “I am so sorry!” she says. “I thought you were a gardener. But if you’re a gardener, you’re doing very well for yourself. That house is enormous!”
That puffs me up a little, I admit. I mean, tell any man he’s enormous at anything and there will be puffing. Followed by swelling in his briefs. “But I am a gardener,” I say. She still looks confused. “I’m a master gardener. An electrician. A contractor. I like to do stuff with my hands. I also have a show on H&G Network. Mr. Fixit Quick? Ever heard of that?”
She blinks. “Um, no? I’m sorry. I only watch cooking shows.”
“Oh.” I can’t believe I dropped the don’t-you-know-who-I-am card, and she really didn’t know.
Ocean floor, here I come!
“You have a show…on television?” she asks. There is an adorable furrow between her eyebrows, and I sort of want to lick it.
“Yup. On TV. The boob tube.” I’m rambling. Badly.
She smiles. “But you look so normal. Wait—is that offensive?”
I smile back because her smile is gorgeous and she just complimented me. Sort of. “I don’t feel very normal most days.” Okay, not smooth. “I mean, TV is not the most relaxing industry, but I like the fast pace. Usually.”
“What’s your last name, Tom?” she asks, pulling out her phone.
“Spanner.”
“Huh. And here I thought you’d be something like…Hammmmerrr…smith.”
“Uhm. No. Although that does have a ring to it.”
“I’m going to Google you.”
“No!” I bark, and she practically drops her phone. “Sorry. What if you didn’t? I mean, there’s just a bunch of people yapping on the internet. You should make up your own mind.”
Her eyes widen. “You mean you have fans?”
“Well, sure. A few.” I have millions. But only a dick says so. And I do not want her to sit across from me at this table and read my Wikipedia entry. Before last winter, I wouldn’t have had any problem with it. Before The Incident, I liked all the female fans’ attention.
Not anymore.
“Okay,” she says slowly, dropping her phone into her purse. “Then you can’t look me up, either. Deal?”
“That’s fair,” I agree. “Only now I’m desperate to know what you don’t want me to see.”
She grins. “The selfie cam on Ash’s phone hates me. Every shot is like this.” She grabs her face and squeezes, distorting her cheeks. “I looth like a Hobbit,” she explains through a puckered face, and then we both laugh.
“I think you’re beautiful. Obviously.”
Her eyes widen. “Really?”
“Really.”
She narrows her eyes. “I’m not sure I believe that from a guy who works in television.”
“It’s not The Bachelor, Brynn. I renovate things.”
“With tools?” She looks a little dreamy.
“Yeah.” Is there another way to renovate things? “Sometimes I just use my hands. Break things apart. Put them back together.”
“Oh, wow.”
We’ve been talking about me for a few minutes now, and that’s just rude. “What do you do?” I ask.
She pales.
14 Arm Wrestling Champion
Brynn
The words sort of hang over the table in a speech bubble. What do you do?
I try on a few different responses in my mind. I’m unemployed, is the most accurate. But so unsexy. I’m a fireman. Fun, but a total lie. I don’t even know where I got that idea. Thanks, subconscious.
When Tom was Braht’s gardener, this was all so much less confusing.
“Well… It’s complicated.”
He smiles at me, and his eyes lower a little, and I realize that this man, this god, this TV personality is ogling me. That’s right. He’s ogling me. Well, he’s actually ogling my girls, but I’ll take it. I am not a woman who’s been ogled in a really long time, and it feels good. I sort of relax a little bit.
“How is it complicated?” he asks, his eyes holding mine this time.
“Well, I’m not working in my field at the moment.”
“What’s your field?”
“English language and writing. I taught at a private college. I have a PhD in English. But I just got laid off from my job.” I say laid off because that sounds way better than fired.
He sits back in his chair a couple of inches. “You’re an academic?” He licks his lips.
Goddamn it. I want to lick those lips. I want his lips to lick my lips. Both sets!
Great. Now I’m throbbing.
“I would be an academic, if I had a job,” I say, clearing my throat. “We can’t all have a glam TV job. Sorry. I’m not very exciting. Or tall.”
He leans forward slowly, and I have to lean in too. Then he whispers, “You are plenty tall. You wrapped your legs around me just fine.”
And then I faint. I go stiff as a board and fall right over.
Okay. Not actually. But internally, I’m a goner.
I take a dainty sip of my drink. Unfortunately, it’s empty so it makes a slurpy noise, and because I’ve already started slurping, I just keep on slurping so I look like I did it all on purpose. Because I’m smooth like that. Silky. Also, I’m an idiot. I can’t smile and be sexy and fake it ’til we make it. I can’t carry on the charade. Now that we both have our clothes on, he’s going to see me as the divorced, jobless loser that I am.
“So, what do you do outside of your field?” He reaches for me with one big Man Hand and tilts my chin so I’m looking at him. The move is very BBC Miniseries. For a second I’m trapped in his chocolatey gaze and everything is okay.
Except he’s waiting for an answer. And, goddamn it. How do I tell him I’ve been too depressed to look for a real job so I mostly sit around the house, make dips and balls and logs and post it on my—
“Blog!” I say. Actually, I sort of shout it. What a stupid word. Blog. Blogblogblog. “I blog!” Why? Why am I shouting? It’s like I suddenly have Tourette’s. And you shouldn’t joke about Tourette’s.
“You make a living at that?” He means blogging. Not Tourette’s. He sounds either impressed or confused. Maybe both.
“I didn’t at first. But now it’s starting to take off. It helps my bottom line. I have a little nest egg from…” That word I can barely say. “My divorce. I’m working hard on the blog while I send out résumés to English departments.” I should send out those résumés, anyway. But I’ve been waiting for my self-esteem to get up off the floor. “I try out recipes, write about food, take pictures. I�
�ve got three cookbooks now. I’m working on the fourth. I can do it from home, and I have an excuse to eat bacon. Not like I need an excuse, because, hello, bacon.”
He laughs. It’s a real laugh. It’s warm and rich.
When he smiles at me, I forget for a second that he’s out of my league. When he looks at me that way, I could almost become the fun, confident person he must think I am. “You want to arm wrestle?” I ask. Or maybe it’s the empty mai tai that’s asked.
He shrugs. “Okay.” He leans forward and puts his elbow on the table. I lean forward after settling my boobs on the edge of the table (they’re heavy, okay?) and wrap my hand around his. He has the manliest hands I’ve ever come into contact with, and I instantly have an orgasm. It’s a small one, so I’m able to keep it together. Then we lock eyes and everything in the room quiets. “On three,” he says. “One—”
I slam his hand down.
See? I can play dirty.
I smile. He smiles. And then Steven walks in the door.
Fucking. A. Steven.
Why do I even care? Why do I care that he strolls in all happy and puffed up like a strutting peacock with that…that girl on his arm. Why do I care? He doesn’t have my heart anymore. Or my vows. He doesn’t even have access to my bank account. We’re as over as over can be.
And that’s what it is. That’s the thing that’s getting me. Six months ago, we shared the same life. I knew where he was every minute of the day, could tell you what he’d wear one day to the next. I could tell by the way he said hello to me if he wanted to have sex. Answer: never. We shared the same life! And now he’s a stranger.
Those tears again.
“Hey,” Tom says, softly. Then again, “Hey.” I realize we’re still holding hands.
“That’s my ex.” I say and do a jerky little head-nod thing. “I don’t love him anymore. I don’t even care that he’s here. It’s just…” I don’t finish the sentence because I don’t know what to finish the sentence with. All of a sudden, I don’t need to because Tom has leaned across the table and he kisses me. It’s lovely and soft and awkward, so he breaks the kiss, stands up, walks over to me, pulls me up and then kisses me properly.
