by Mimi Strong
I had a lot of fun, but I’m twenty-seven now, and things with guys my age are changing. When you’re younger, guys are into girls, period. Girls. Any kind.
But now, guys seem more choosey. It’s like there are two types of girls: the marrying kind, and the okay-for-now kind.
I look down at my toast and tap the crumbs onto the plate, fighting down a wave of pathetic sorrow. I’m having breakfast alone right now because I’m not the marrying kind.
Last night, I met two different cute guys, and I struck out with both of them.
I didn’t realize my situation was this bad. When Luca was first chasing after Tina, he and I got along well. I was never after him for myself, of course, but I’d indulged in a fantasy that he might have a brother… perhaps a slightly less perfect, less handsome, less amazing version of himself.
Unfortunately, though, Luca doesn’t have a brother. That’s why the only sweet little kisses I’ll be getting in the morning, for the rest of my days, will be coming from a whiskered companion who licks his own butt.
Fine. I accept my fate.
I clear up the breakfast dishes and check the time. I wonder what Drew, the new guy I drove away from the group, is doing right now. Is he sorting through his ties for one he likes? In my mind, I can see him shaving his perfect, handsome face, then pulling on a crisp, clean dress shirt.
I wonder what kind of job he has, and why he came to our group. Since he’s probably not coming back, I’ll never know.
What can I do? What can I do to stop driving guys away?
My eyes dart over, seemingly with a mind of their own, to the business card I took from Duncan’s antique shop.
I’ll start making amends. That’s what I’ll do.
Tina will be opening the flower shop today, so I’ve got the morning free, and I’ll make amends with Duncan.
It can’t hurt to try to be nice, can it?
Chapter 5
I walk into Sweet Caroline Antiques, where I’m shocked to find Duncan chatting with the actor, Matthew McConnaughey.
Matthew grins and says, “All right, all right!”
When he turns to look me up and down, I realize the guy is not the famous actor, but someone who looks an awful lot like him.
Duncan says, “Thanks, Cooper. I know Charlie said to forget about finding her, but he doesn’t mean it. I’ll tell him the good news tonight.”
“Road trip,” the guy says, grinning.
Duncan gives me a polite nod, not acknowledging that I’m anything more to him than a potential customer.
I walk over to a cabinet full of tea cups and pretend to be interested, while listening in.
Duncan and the guy talk for a few for minutes about some girl they’ve tracked down in Arizona, then the not-Matthew-McConnaughey guy leaves.
I turn around and say, “Private detective?”
Duncan puffs out his chest and runs his hand through his long, sandy brown hair. He looks cuter than I remembered, like someone who should be on a surfboard, not standing behind the counter of a little antiques store.
“Who wants to know?” he answers, his tone light and teasing. “Do you need to hire a detective to search for your manners?”
I keep staring at his face, until I realize what’s different. “No, but there has been a mysterious goatee disappearance.”
Duncan rubs his smooth chin. “I’d been meaning to shave it off anyway. Don’t think I did it on account of you saying my mouth looked like a you-know-what.”
“A lady’s private business.”
He winces. “Regardless, I’m glad you stopped in. I don’t know what I said or did last night that set you off, but I’m the guy, so whatever it was, I’m sure you think it was my fault.”
I walk around some oak tables, getting closer to the counter where Duncan’s standing, but I keep moving past him, as though my primary motivation is shopping.
I run my fingers over some honey-stained oak. “We can split the blame, fifty-fifty.”
“Sure. Let’s try to be friends, since we’re practically neighbors.”
“I was joking about the gay husband thing, but that wasn’t right of me. I don’t care what you are.” I keep moving deeper into the shop, where the smell of fresh varnish and furniture polish is stronger. “My family raised me and my sister to accept all people, and I do. Not just because of how I was raised, but because it’s only right. If I ever joke about something, I’m joking about the stereotype itself, and not the person.”
“I’m not gay,” he says. “But between you and me, if a couple of guys with expensive shoes come into my shop and get excited over redecorating an entire house, I do start to speak… a little more like this.” His voice goes up and becomes more precise. “That sideboard absolutely must not be split up from the matching table.”
“You’re bad,” I say, laughing. I keep looking around, and Duncan busies himself with some paperwork behind the counter.
After a minute, he says, completely out of the blue, “You’re pretty.”
“What?” I look around to see if someone else has come in the door.
“I have an eye for beauty,” he explains. “I go to auctions all the time, and I always get the deals. The key is being able to spot value, being able to tell trash from the real deal.”
I frown at him, unsure if I should be offended or flattered. “So, you’re saying I’m not trash?”
“I’m saying you’re the real deal, and you’re pretty. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re just not my type.”
His words are probably said with a kind intent, but they still sting to hear. I snap back with, “You’re not my type, either. I like a guy with balls.”
His mouth opens, like he’s about to say something brutal—something I probably deserve to hear—but then he stops himself. “Good luck with that,” he says softly as he pulls his phone from his pocket.
I cross my arms, hunch over to make myself small, and weave my way around the furniture. “This place is like a maze,” I mutter under my breath.
“Good to see you,” he calls after me. “I’m heading out of town for a few days, but I’ll see you around.”
I drop venom-filled words like water bombs. “Not if I see you first!”
Chapter 6
I am ashamed of how desperately I want to be loved.
Six days have gone by since my failed apology to Duncan, and I still feel lousy about my inability to be nice.
It’s Tuesday, and I’ve taken the entire day off work, just so I can make ridiculously complicated treats for the self-help group tonight.
I’m being silly. Those carboholics would be more than happy with a simple jelly roll, or cookies. But here I am, slaving away in my mother’s kitchen all day, making petit fours—tiny French tea cakes with delicate flower decorations.
I’ve been planning this since last Wednesday, when my attempts to make amends with Duncan at the antiques store blew up in my face.
I keep trying to procrastinate my anxiety, but I can’t push away these thoughts about Duncan. (Duncan, then Drew, then Duncan again. I’m cursed by problems with D-named guys. Must be something in my horoscope.)
Now Duncan’s in my head. He’s not paying rent in there, but he’s my noisy tenant and I can’t kick him out.
Duncan’s words keep ringing in my ears. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re just not my type.”
Whenever someone asks you to not take something the wrong way, they should have the decency to explain exactly how you’re supposed to take it the right way. He said: not my type. What the hell? Is that supposed to be a compliment? It’s not like Duncan said, “I like wrinkly old ladies with big hairy moles, therefore you’re not my type.”
He said he had an eye for beauty, or value, or something like that. I don’t remember that part. Just the kick in the ovaries that was his not-my-type rejection.
I’m finally finished toiling over the petit fours, and I carefully transfer them over to a serving t
ray. Now I have a new problem. They’re too perfect. Everyone will think I bought them from a bakery. Growling with impatience, I grab some leftover icing and petals, and smudge up a third of them so they don’t look so perfect.
“Meenie, you are unhinged,” I mutter to myself.
I get ready for group, rummaging through my closet for a fresh shirt. I want something with attitude, so I grab my trusty ‘I Love Beijing’ shirt. It looks like a classic ‘I Love New York’ shirt, only instead of NY, it says BJ.
Yes, I’m going to self-help group wearing an I ♥ BJ shirt. That’s just how I roll!
To class myself up, I spend some extra minutes on makeup.
I’m going to come clean tonight. I’m going to throw myself upon the mercy of the group, and tell them the whole truth. I won’t tell some edited half-truths about why my interactions with guys end in disaster. I’ll admit that I talk way too much about guys’ balls—specifically, their lack of them.
Then Feather will give me a diagnosis—probably some therapy crap about blah-blah-who-knows—and then I’ll get a list of what to do, and I’ll cure myself of talking about balls.
It’s going to be great! I feel better already. This is totally going to work.
I’m the first to arrive at room 3C, so I start setting out chairs. Feather comes in next, floating on a cloud of that special beauty and happiness that only natural blondes who are married to sexy hotel owners have.
“How are you doing, Meenie?” she asks, looking over the tiny square cakes set up on the snack table.
“Pretty good.”
She tucks her perfect, platinum blond hair behind one ear. “The last time I saw you bring something so elaborate, your grandmother had just passed away. Is there anything you’d like to talk about before the others get here?”
I stare at her perfect lips and think about the rumor I heard—that she met her husband when he hired her to kiss him. Her kissing magically cured him in some unspecified way I spend far too much time thinking about. She’s so pretty. I’m not into girls, but damn it, I’d probably kiss her too, if she felt it would help my situation.
“Do you think my name is a problem?” I set out the final chair and stand behind it, resting my palms on the back. “I’m just thinking that people take on the qualities of their name. You look like a feather. You’re dainty and wispy. You’re soft and soothing to people, but you still have that core of strength.”
“That’s an interesting idea.” She sets out the sign-in book and begins circling the chairs, adjusting each one with precision.
I take a seat in the circle and wait for her to answer my question. Feather likes to take her time and think before she responds. Her answers are always worth the wait. I look down at her sparkling engagement ring and wedding band. Feather’s definitely the marrying kind, so I don’t know if she can even relate to me on a personal level, but maybe she’s had other clients like me.
“Would you prefer that I call you Megan?” she asks.
“I think it might be too late. Everyone knows me as Meenie, and I’d have to constantly correct everyone, and that’s not very nice, so there goes that whole idea. Forget I asked. Never mind.”
She purses her lips and gives me an amused smile. “It’s always interesting how people answer their own questions.”
“Do you think I’m mean because of my name?”
“I don’t think you’re mean.” She takes a seat in her usual spot, with her back to the door, and crosses her legs. She quickly adjusts the loose-fitting sweater that falls down over the waist of her long skirt. It’s a tiny gesture, but gives away everything.
“Holy shit, you’re pregnant, Feather.”
Her eyes widen, and she glances over her shoulder at the door to make sure we’re alone.
Turning back to me, she’s beaming. “Shh. It’s not official. Please don’t mention this, because my first pregnancy years ago ended in miscarriage. This one’s going well so far, but… you know.”
I pat my own stomach and nod. “I don’t know about babies, but I do own a baby maker, so I’m qualified to pretend I know. Don’t worry, I won’t tell the others.”
She re-adjusts her sweater, so her bump isn’t visible. “You’re good at noticing things in other people. I hope you’ll share something tonight about yourself, if you’re ready.”
“You know I don’t have major problems, though. I’m not a mess like some of the others.”
She gives me another amused smile. “Of course not. I remember. You came here that first night because you thought it was a Weight Watchers group.”
I nod solemnly. “And I thought it was a good one, because there were so many skinny people in the group.”
“At what point did you realize it wasn’t Weight Watchers?”
My cheeks get hot. “Halfway through the second meeting.”
Feather laughs. “But you kept coming.”
I shrug. “I lost five pounds, so it worked.”
The door creaks, and the rest of the members start filing in. People sign their names in Feather’s book, so she can keep the billing straight. She charges a small fee per drop-in, just to cover her time.
I keep watching the door for Drew. I hope he shows up tonight, even though I also hope he doesn’t. I’m so mixed up, feeling two opposite things at once.
Abbie sits beside me. “That’s certainly an interesting T-shirt. You’ve got a lot of guts, Meenie.”
I look down at my I ♥ BJ shirt. “It’s for Beijing. I love Beijing.”
“Have you been to China?”
“No.”
She pats my leg. “I know what a BJ is, dear. There may be snow on the mountain, but there’s fire below.”
“You wild thing, Abbie.”
“I wonder if that young man will come back tonight.”
“Who?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Don’t worry, dear. He’s all yours. I won’t fight you for him.”
“Oh, that guy. You can have him. I don’t like good-looking, well-dressed, sensitive guys.”
“Sure, you don’t,” she says knowingly.
Chapter 7
We start on time for a change, at eight o’clock, and get right down to business. Abbie tells us about the crazy things her sister did this week, and we all offer our support.
I’m up next, and just as I take a breath to start, the door creaks open. Drew steps in, an apologetic grin on his face. Feather gestures to an empty chair, and thirteen sets of eyes watch as Drew unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat.
I’m speechless. He’s so confident. He looks like a famous actor or model sitting down to do an interview on a talk show. He’s way too good looking to be in group therapy. He should be paying for one-on-one. It’s not fair to the rest of us. How are we suppose to focus on our problems when we’re busy drooling over Drew’s square, lickable chin. Or staring at those dazzling brown eyes.
Oh, it just keep getting better. The hem of his suit pants have ridden up enough to reveal his socks, and even his socks are HOTTT with three t’s. They’re argyle—those interlocking diamond shapes that have a sexy-older-man quality to them.
Feather clears her throat. “Welcome, Drew. I’m sure you’ll be on time next week, now that you know where the room is. I guess we’ll just keep going. Meenie was about to share something with the group.”
I tear my eyes away from Drew and look at the floor. The floor is gray carpet tiles. Not sexy. My eyes flick back up to Drew. He’s much nicer to look at.
“Meenie?” Feather snaps her fingers, and a few of the others laugh.
“Oh, balls.” I cover my face with my hand and slump down in my chair. “Somebody else go. I can’t go. Not if he’s here.”
There’s the collective sound of everyone gasping in breath. My tone was accusing and rude.
I peer through my fingers at Drew. “No offense.”
He points to his chest, confused. “Me? Hey, everyone, I’m really sorry I got here late. But if you want me to go, I’ll go.�
��
Carla, sitting across from me, says, “Young man, you’re bothering Meenie.” I look up in surprise. Carla doesn’t usually say much at all. She’s really worked up, though, saying, “I saw you putting your dirty eyes all over our Meenie last week. This isn’t a group for sex addiction, you know.”
I start laughing. I’m so overwhelmed with emotion, I think I might even start crying. “He didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell Carla and the others. The group is quietly listening, so I continue, “Drew did come over and talk to me last week, but he didn’t put his ‘dirty eyes all over’ me. I’m fine, honestly.”
“I’m not a sex addict,” he says, his voice considerably louder and more forceful than necessary.
A few ladies make ooooh sounds and I hear someone snicker, “Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.”
I pull my hand down from my face and mouth an apology to Drew. I’m sorry.
He locks me in his gaze, and I can’t pull away from his dazzling brown eyes. “You were here first,” he says, directly to me. “I can find another group. Just say the word, Meenie, and I’ll back off.” He looks around at the others, meeting their eyes and charming them one by one with his undeniable, palpable, inescapable, unstoppable, overwhelming, so-real-you-can-taste-it, charisma.
I can feel the energy shifting over to take his side. Now I’m the mean one, mean ol’ Meenie, driving away the sweet young man with the GQ cologne and the GQ suit and the GQ looks.
“I want nothing more than what’s best for the group,” Drew says.
He bats his thick, dreamy eyelashes.
All the ladies whip off their panties and throw them at him. Feather uncrosses her legs and gets double-pregnant just by looking at him.
I know! I know! I’m out of control!
There’s no such thing as double-pregnant!
I push my chair back and stand up. “I brought fucking TEA CAKES!”
A hush falls over the group.
Now that I’m standing, my full shirt is visible. I can feel everyone reading it. I want to tell them I know, I know. I’m out of control.
