by Mimi Strong
When you have enjoyable sex, or even some fun kissing with someone (the lips are a hundred times more sensitive than any other part of the body), your body experiences a rise in the hormones that lead to bonding. Some say these natural chemicals are stronger than opiates, which explains the drunken, goofy looks that teenagers swapping spit in public always seem to have.
These chemicals are why “friends with benefits” often leads to love and marriage and an overpriced SUV-sized baby carriage.
“But,” Devin said as the door closed between us.
There was something else, muffled.
“Okay!” I yelled cheerfully. “See you!”
He said something else, but I didn't want to hear it. The door was locked.
“We'll talk soon!” I yelled, and then I walked over to my stereo and put on some music.
Steph came over to see me an hour later, just as it was getting dark outside. She had chicken noodle soup.
“Chicken soup? I don't have a cold,” I said, rubbing at my red eyes.
“You look like shit.”
“I've been crying, but I think it's stopped.”
She steered me over to the kitchen stools, sat me down, put a spoon in my hand, and cracked the lid of the container. The soup smelled amazing.
“A lesson from my gramma,” she said. “Saltwater out, saltwater in. Eat.”
I took three sips, the salty taste awakening my appetite. I hadn't eaten since lunch, nearly eight hours earlier, and soon I was slurping the soup with gusto.
“Saltwater out.” I pointed to my red eyes. “Saltwater in.” I tipped up the Styrofoam container and drank down the last bits.
“Gramma knows best.”
“I think there is wisdom in the old ways. There've been so many changes to how we live, and they're not all good.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, indulging my need to spew factoids.
“We used to live in multi-generational households, and nowadays, in America, that's considered odd.” I scooped up a stray noodle with my fingertips. “If you live with your parents as an adult, let alone your grandparents, people think you're a loser, like you can't earn a living.”
“Caleb lives with his parents.”
“Oh, right. You have a boyfriend now.”
Steph got that dopey-teen-makeout-session look at the mention of Caleb. They'd been seeing each other almost every day, and it sounded serious.
“What do I do now?” I said.
Steph crossed her arms and gave me a hard stare. “Feather.”
“Seriously, coach me. I need it.”
“Feather, you slept with him. I haven't met him, so I don't have a clue. On one hand, he sounds really sweet, but on the other hand, I want to shove my foot up his ass for treating my best friend like a prostitute. I mean… did he pay you extra for the sex, or what?”
I thought of him trying to tell me something through the door and realized he hadn't paid for that day's session.
I relayed this to Steph, and she said, “Whatever. You have to let go of how things started off, and move ahead.”
“You mean find someone else to date?”
“No, I mean don't worry that years from now it might come out he was your coaching client. Look at me. Do I look worried that one day I'll get married to Caleb and someone will tell the embarrassing story that he kissed my best friend two minutes before our first kiss?” She laughed. “Okay, I'm a little worried, but that's life. Things are weird and complicated and that's just how it is. They say not to mix family and business, and here I am, running a shop with my mother.”
“You're right. I shouldn't take advice from you. You do everything wrong.”
She picked up my cell phone from the counter and handed it to me. “You've been glancing over at this thing once every ten seconds. Maybe he'll call or text, or maybe he won't. Do you really want to put the future of your relationship in his hands? This is a guy who was terrified of kissing.”
“You think I should call him?” I put my finger over the screen, but hesitated. “I can't call. What if he doesn't pick up?”
She grabbed the phone from me and typed a message: Now that I'm not coaching you, I would like to go on a real date, if you're interested. If not, please delete this message and let's pretend nothing ever happened.
My mouth went dry.
“That sounds too earnest,” I said.
“If you were paying me money for my advice, you'd send that message.”
“I shouldn't have told you all my coaching secrets.”
“You guys should totally date,” she said. “And not just because you can double date with us, but because your apartment has never looked better. I like coming over here and knowing there won't be half-folded laundry all over the couch.”
“Yeah. 'Cause it's all about you, isn't it?” I teased.
Steph smiled and dug around in the paper takeout bag, then produced three more containers of soup.
“I guess I'll send this message,” I said.
She took the lid off one container and put it in front of me, then another one for herself.
I sent the message, and immediately felt buoyant, like I might float away on a red balloon.
I put the phone down and dug into my second soup.
A moment later, I said to Steph, “Why do you need soup? You haven't been crying.”
“No,” she said, grinning. “But Caleb's been working me like a gymnast. I've been sweating a lot, ya know? I think I've lost five pounds.”
“Gross.”
“Enough about my excitement,” she said. “So, how was he? For a virgin?”
“I swear, if I hadn't known, I wouldn't have guessed.”
“No bad habits,” she said. “He didn't have some other girlfriend before you who enjoyed being pounded like a cheap cut of meat that needs to be tenderized.”
“Uh.”
“Because that's how I like it, and with a little coaching, Caleb's finally getting the hang of it.”
I put my face in my hand. “Gross.”
My phone beeped and we both stared at each other, frozen like mannequins.
“You read it.” I pushed the phone toward her. “Break it to me gently.”
She frowned at the phone, then smiled. She kept reading and reading, and then she laughed.
I kicked her.
She said, “Dinosaurs?”
“I will shave off your pretty hair in your sleep if you don't tell me, right this minute.”
“He's busy with work this week, but he wants to take you to see the dinosaur exhibit on Saturday.”
And that's when I literally fell off my chair.
The museum.
Noon.
I went to the museum, armed with a single banana. The security guy excoriated me for bringing food into the place, but I insisted it was a gift.
“It hasn't been opened yet,” I said.
He was a skinny man with a comically large mustache. “If you'd put it in your purse, I wouldn't even know you were smuggling in outside food.”
“I don't want it to get all bruised. C'mon, it's a gag gift, for a guy I like. Things between us are a tad awkward right now.”
He said, “And you think giving him a banana is going to help?” He shook his head.
“C'mon, you guys let small children in here, with their drool and their boogers. Unlike the little germ incubators, I'm not going to wipe anything sticky and green on the exhibits.”
A duo of snot-monsters came by just then, coughing with nothing covering their mouths and proving my point.
The security guy grinned under his mustache and finally waved me in, saying, “You're not a big fan of the little ones, are you?”
“I come from a very long line of people who don't like children,” I said as I winked.
He looked upset, so I told him what he wanted to hear: that of course I would change my mind about kids when I got older, and I'd pop out a bunch of ankle-huggers and bring them to the museum every chance I got.
> “Good,” he said. “Enjoy the museum, ma'am.”
I walked away, feeling weird about being called ma'am instead of miss. Was I a ma'am now? How old did he think I was?
I found the spot we'd planned to meet, and stood in front of the Tyrannosaurus Rex, pondering how it was always the gums that made the beasts seem fake. The pink gums around the ferocious teeth lacked moisture. Would a high gloss topcoat help?
Where was Devin, anyway? One more minute and I was going to freak out about him standing me up.
A mother who looked about my age walked by with a baby in a stroller.
I wondered if I would change my mind about kids when I got older.
I'd already experienced a pregnancy once. One bonus cruel thing about miscarriages is the body doesn't snap back immediately. The pregnancy hormones can remain in your system for weeks or months, giving you morning sickness and all the other symptoms. For weeks after the miscarriage, I'd find myself humming and holding my stomach, as though preparing for something wonderful.
But nothing wonderful came.
I dropped out of school and kept living with Steph, who generously paid all the bills until I got a job. I did my therapy (I often say that phrase the way someone would talk of doing a sentence in jail—Girl, I did my time!) and I took some courses. I got my life together, then I decided to take on other people's lives, and got into coaching.
Most people will change careers about a gajillion times in their lives, but I may choose to be an outlier and stick with coaching, forever.
Either that or find a career taking hilarious photos and posting them online. (Ah, if only it paid.) Devin was still nowhere in sight, so I got out my phone and took some pictures of my hand and the banana near the dinosaur's desiccated-looking lips and gums.
Some kids gathered to watch, so, naturally, I pretended I was trying to coax the dinosaur to eat.
“Just a nibble,” I said to the big monster. “Yum yum! Baby, you have to try new things, or you'll go extinct.”
Someone said, “You're a natural.”
I turned around to see Devin, looking stylish and handsome as always, in a blue button-down shirt and tight black jeans.
“Oh, he's not mine,” I said. “I'm just babysitting while his mother is out eating other dinosaurs.”
The kids all thought this was the most hilarious thing yet. Go figure! Kids laugh at very different things than adults.
Devin walked right up to me and kissed me.
On the cheek.
“Nice to see you,” he said.
The kids realized I wasn't a museum employee and wandered off.
I handed him the banana. “Here, I got you one of those fat-free bananas you've been so curious to try.”
“Why, thank you.”
“You can't eat it here, though. No food in the display area of the museum.”
He nodded and stuck the end of it loosely in his front pocket, like a gun in a holster.
“You look like a cowboy,” I said.
“And you look really nice today.”
I struck a girly pose. I wore ballet flats and a blue-green dress with a skinny red belt. The dress color matched my eyes and the red belt matched my lipstick. (Oh, no, I hadn't obsessed about my look at all.) “This lipstick is smudge-proof,” I said, apropos of nothing… but kissing—kissing Devin on his luscious, boyish, soft, kissable lips.
He grinned and tossed back his lanky black hair.
We started walking, and he grabbed my hand to hold it in his.
As our fingers entwined, blood rushed through me and sent sparks though my erogenous zones. I was sure everyone in the museum could see nothing but my blushing cheeks, yet they all seemed to be going about their business, unaware that Devin was HOLDING MY HAND! IN PUBLIC!
Never mind that we'd had sex four days earlier… we'd never held hands before, and it was every bit as thrilling.
He brought my hand up to his mouth and kissed my thumb briefly.
“What's it like being so white?” he asked.
“I burn easily.”
“I bet nobody ever asks where you're from.”
We approached a display of fossils.
“Probably not as often as they ask you,” I said. “You could be a model or an actor, and your skin is so beautiful. No wonder they're curious.”
He stared at the rocks behind the glass. “I guess I don't mind looking different from everyone else. I mean, sometimes I forget, and when I see a photo of myself with Indian friends, I'm surprised I'm the pale one, or that I'm the brown one with my white friends. When I'm with them, I feel like we're all the same.”
“My best friend is also a blonde. People think she's my sister, but she's way…” I stopped myself, clamping my lips tight. I knew not to put myself down in front of a guy. It was one of the first things I coached my clients on, and I'd almost confessed to my insecurities.
Even without me finishing the thought, Devin seemed to know what I'd meant.
He turned to me and said, “Comparison is the thief of joy.”
His words sent a chill through my body, the skin on my bare forearms tightening into goosebumps.
“That is so true,” I said.
He tugged my hand, leading me to the next display. “Have you been to London? Specifically, have you been to the best thing there, the Natural History Museum?”
“No and no. Is that a famous museum?”
He pretended to cough and be horrified I didn't know, and then he went on to tell me all about it as we walked through the dinosaur displays. We walked along, me with my system happily flooded from the chemical reaction of him holding my hand, and he told me about his trip to London. He was only there for three days, for a hotel management conference, and he'd gone to the Natural History Museum every one of the three days. They'd had to kick him out at closing time each day.
As he talked about the artifacts and displays, his face took on a far-away, blissed-out look. (Apparently, I look the same way when I set foot in a Sephora makeup store.) I asked, “Would you be a historian or archaeologist in another life?”
He grinned. “Is that a crack about reincarnation?”
I stammered that it was not.
He pulled me in for a hug. “Relax! I'm just teasing you.”
I nuzzled my cheek against his chin, taking in the warm, intoxicating scent of his neck. The man smelled so good. I pulled away, embarrassed at how turned-on I felt, and sure everyone could tell by the way I stood or walked exactly what feelings I was having.
“My dream job might surprise you,” he said. “I'd love to work with cookbooks. The fancy ones with the nice photos and funny anecdotes along with the recipes.”
“No way!” We started walking again—slowly, because we were behind a group of kids. “What's that all about? Do you love cooking? Or photography? Or stories?”
“All of the above.” He looked shy and embarrassed. “I've been working on one with the chef at the hotel. We're not a fancy hotel, and the chef's not a big name or anything, but it's fun. We were drinking beer in the kitchen one night after the restaurant closed, and we started making up crazy dishes. I took a few photos, and they turned out not-too-bad.”
“I love that. I love when people find something they enjoy and pursue it.”
He pulled me into a dark alcove.
“Lately, I've been distracted,” he said, his hands on my waist, pulling me closer.
I lowered my eyelids and tilted up my chin, moving in closer. “Tell me about it.”
“I'd rather show you,” he said, and he leaned down to kiss me.
It was the kind of kiss you feel all over your body, every part of you connected to those sensitive nerve endings in your lips.
We were so close, and this part of the museum was quiet. I could hear him breathing, and I could hear the fake-leather strap of my purse on my shoulder, squeaking. My lips parted and his tongue nudged against mine. My already-flooded system got another wave of happiness, and my hands circled around to pr
ess against his shoulders as we kissed. My body pulled against his, like a magnet to a strong, sexy, smart, hunky refrigerator door.
Someone cleared his throat behind us. We pulled apart quickly, Devin looking as sheepish as I felt.
The security guard I'd talked to before was there. “You're squishing his banana,” the man said.
My jaw dropped open.
“Young lady, I knew you were trouble,” the security guard said with a grin.
Devin pulled the slightly-bruised banana I'd given him from his pocket.
“Still edible,” he said. “We were just on our way out to get some lunch.”
The guard nodded. “This is a family museum.”
“Of course,” Devin said cheerily.
He grabbed my hand and we raced for the front door, laughing the whole way.
Outside, I shivered as soon as we got as far as the sidewalk. It was chilly for a summer day, with clouds and the idea of rain on the sky's mind.
“I guess we should get lunch,” Devin said.
I folded my arms and snuggled in close to him. “I'll go anywhere with you.”
“My apartment is only a few blocks away. I could make you a sandwich there.”
See his place? Yes please! “Sure,” I said, my voice pitching up and betraying my excitement. “Just lunch, though.” I laughed nervously. “No funny business.”
If this were a movie, we'd do a smash-cut to me and Devin barely making it inside his apartment as we tore each other's clothes off.
The screen would show me saying “No funny business,” and then I'd be on my back on Devin's dining room table.
And he'd have his head between my thighs.
Let me back this story up just a bit. On the walk to his place, I'd complimented him on getting over his fear of kissing. He'd then said some things about exploring all the types of kissing. At first I thought he meant closed-mouth and also open-mouthed, the latter being the type French people call soul kissing. (They can't exactly call it French kissing, now, can they?) As we got to his place and stepped into the elevator, he looked right at my panties-area, as though he could see through my blue-green dress, and he said, “The other kind of kissing.”
