Daisy protests as I pull my knees to my chest, dislodging her from her position between my legs, the sheets tangling as I try to free myself from their suffocating grip. I wonder once again why these nightmares disrupt my sleep so often now and know there will be no meditation today. The tattoo of my pulse is proof of the sheer panic and fight-or-flight response that my body still feels as the tremors start to ease.
Groaning, I turn to the alarm clock and realize it's still early. Rather than try to fall to sleep, I contemplate what my next move should be.
For most people, weekends mean relaxation, errands, and getting together with family and friends. For me, weekends are a toss up between just another workday, or trying to get back into a writing routine and hoping that my muse will come out and play. Judging by how often she has been MIA lately, however, it seems that today is likely to be just another struggle for words. At least I don't have to try to wrap my head around Christmas this morning. It's Nate's headache for now.
An overwhelming feeling of helplessness settles in my chest as I ponder once more why I'm putting myself through this torture. Unless something happens soon, the reality is that financially, I need to make some serious decisions and writing will clearly become unsustainable, at least in the real world.
It's shocking to realize what it costs for covers, editing, formatting, and swag. While you always hope the next book will pay for itself, there's always the bigger chance that it won't. Maybe I'll just go back to writing fanfiction and become one more person who lives off the dreams of others.
Grabbing my iPad, I check to see who's in today's list of matches on ESoulmate. It's been slim pickings lately, each day's selection becoming thinner and thinner, until it seems like there couldn't possibly be anyone in the universe that's a match for me.
I wonder how that's possible. When did my life become such a train wreck? I may not be a beauty queen, but God knows I uphold the general standards of hygiene. I've been told that I don't suffer from RBF, and that I'm generally fun to be around. I've even been told that my overabundance of curves is a turn on for some guys.
Why is it that the bitchiest women seem to have the best luck with men? Is it that men really just want to be pushed around, or be told that they're a dick? Does that make them feel less responsibility to be a good human being, or to uphold their end of a relationship, when they attach themselves to a partner that holds nothing but disdain for them?
It's an age old question. Surely sometimes the arranged marriages must have worked out? Or at least when they had their lovers on the side, everyone knew the rules of the game.
I wish I could be satisfied with someone who was a total asshole, but it's too late—I'm too old to settle. While I may be struggling now, I know that I'm not someone who would accept being taken care of in a traditional fashion. I've paid my dues, and now, I can't reconcile accepting anything less than I deserve. My days of indulging assholes who make me feel bad about myself are over. And if I can't have my own damn HEA, then I will write it for every other girl who needs hope.
Scrolling through the profiles, I realize that I have a new message from Cliff. He's been quite persistent, considering how many times I've canceled meeting him. Today's message is as friendly as all the rest, and I wonder at what point he'll give up. Maybe I just need to rip off the bandage and meet him so we can end this pretense once and for all that there might be any semblance of compatibility. Although, I do find him mighty amusing, and his banter is good for my writing, since it sparked an entire scene of dialogue based on his last attempt at flirtation. It might be worth keeping him around for that alone.
I wonder how he would feel if he knew that his words were just feeding dialogue for others to read? Would he enjoy knowing that he had inspired me, or would he resent the fact that I was using him this way? Hopefully, it wouldn't be the latter, since he seems to have a fairly good sense of humor, but you never know. People often react in the most unexpected ways.
Clicking to the messaging feed, I smile faintly at his upbeat greeting.
Doolittle: Good morning, sunshine, how was your week?
WhatWouldJaneDo: Customers were crazy as usual, and I can't even tell you about my holiday debacle
Doolittle: Holiday? Which holiday are we talking about? Did I miss Yom Kippur or something?
I sigh. Oh, Cliff, let me invite you into my schizophrenia
WWJD: The holiday is Christmas, and be happy that you missed it
Doolittle: Christmas? According to my calendar, it's only September. Did I miss a time hop somewhere?
Aha, I will allow you to feel my pain. My fingers dance across the keyboard.
WWJD: LOL! Believe it or not, I have been in Christmas hell. I've been doing the time warp, and I didn't even get a sexy Frankenstein to ease my pain.
Doolittle: This sounds serious! Do you need a doctor to make it better?
Biting my lip, I pause before responding. Why yes, Cliff, in fact, I do. Let's see what you can do about that.
WWJD: What did you have in mind?
Doolittle: I've been told that I give good brunch.
WWJD: So tempting. But I’m already struggling to catch upon stuff. I've been a terrible slacker lately. I'm determined to mend my wayward tendencies.
Doolittle: Come on, Josie. When are we going to meet and take this to the next level? A cappuccino won't kill you. If you're really good, I might be willing to throw in some bacon.
Damn him. I really need to stop including so many personal details in my profile, but I have to give him props for paying attention. Anyone that caught my veiled hints of 'will work for bacon, fine wine, alt music, and snuggles' should be rewarded.
WWJD: Bacon! That's cheating! It's never fair to invoke bacon into the conversation.
Any guy that knows that bacon is the way to a girl's heart is dangerous. Maybe Cliff has some game after all.
Doolittle: Well, I like to live on the edge. So what do you say? We can make it quick and painless! What have you got to lose? If nothing else, you get free cappuccino and bacon! Who can resist an offer like that?
He's got me there. Especially since I'm saving every penny for new cover art.
WWJD: OK, you've convinced me. Where do you want to meet and when?
Doolittle: Do you know where Lulu's is?
I can hardly contain my inner squeal.
WWJD: Yes, although I've never been there!
But I've been dying to go, and he just found the perfect way to impress me.
Doolittle: The chef is a friend of mine. He makes the world's best brioche French toast. Meet me there at 11. I'll get us a table. Ignore the lines, just come in. I'll be waiting.
My God, I have nothing to wear!
WWJD: OK, it's a date. But after this, you may no longer invoke the bacon bribe.
A girl has to set boundaries after all.
Doolittle: Deal! See you in a while.
My heart begins to race again as I drop my iPad on the mattress, but this time, I realize it's nervous anticipation rather than the fear engendered by my nightmares. I'm really going to do this—I'm going to jump in and meet Cliff on neutral ground. I hope I don't make a complete ass of myself. Now, what shall I wear? It needs to be something that says totally casual, while still showing off all of my assets!
* * *
There's a ritual to getting ready for a date—the moisturizing of wrinkles and skin, the shaving, plucking, and curling of hair. It's probably a good thing I don't have too much time to think about this before I need to be there. God knows I work best under pressure; I'm a wreck when I have too much time to stew over something.
So what says artless style for brunch at Lulu's? Normally, I would default to leggings and an oversized t-shirt on a Sunday, but Lulu's is the hot spot for hipsters and I don't want to look underdressed.
It's times like these that I envy the petite girls with their tiny bodies and breasts that never need to be contained by bras and spandex. It's not that I don't like my curves, but t
hey make me more high-maintenance than the girls that roll out of bed, throw on a t-shirt and leggings, and head out the door. I hate having to carefully squeeze myself into clothing that compresses my curves to lift, round, and minimize.
Then there's the hair. The messy bedhead in the mirror is enough to scare anyone at nine am, especially without the benefit of coffee. I muse again about how glorious it must have been to have a lady's maid as I switch on my curling iron and grab a brush. To have someone bring you hot chocolate in bed, lay out your clothes, and brush your hair until it shone.
My mind flashes to the gorgeous Regency dresses I found online while researching my last book, although I'm happy I'm not required to squeeze my curves into a corset every day. I can't imagine how they ever managed to breathe, and for such a prudish society, they were certainly willing to flash a lot of breast. It's amazingly perverse, their tendency to blatantly show off their goodies but also slap the hands that wanted to touch what was being offered so blatantly.
I can't imagine what it was like to spend the better part of every morning being primped and laced just to be able to show yourself in the parlor for breakfast, and then have to go back and do it again multiple times each day. Staring critically at my hair, I regard the length and wonder if I can pull off a casual knot. Sighing, I pick out my favorite hairspray and question again how I got practically Asian-straight hair instead of the natural waves which blessed all of my siblings. I never knew my grandmother well, but you can't tell me that she wasn't bumping the nasties with some eccentric artists back in her day. Genetics don't lie, so I must be a throwback to some other obscure branch of the family tree.
A few waves should break up the texture and keep my hair twist from looking like a turkey ass. Usually, I just pull it straight back in a ponytail and hope for the best. Why can supermodels make that look chic, while I just look like a soccer mom? Winding a section of hair around the iron, I'm startled as Daisy jumps to the sink to supervise my efforts, only to wince at the sharp pain on my collarbone.
"Damnit, Daisy! That stings." The small pink mark on my neck begins to blaze, although it's barely discernible, but it certainly hurts like a bitch! Fumbling through the vanity drawer, I find a bottle of calendula and some antibiotic cream to kill the burn.
"Don't look at me like that. You know better than to startle me when I have a hot instrument in my hand. Now get down before you get burned, too!" Ignoring my entreaties, Daisy purrs placidly, lifting a paw to wash a delicate ear as if grooming herself for my date, and to show me how easy it is. Even my cat is better prepared than I am.
Dabbing a little more cream on the burn, I glance at the clock and realize it's later than I thought. Ok, ponytail it is. The supermodel will have to be revealed another day.
* * *
The line in front of Lulu's is about ten deep as people fidget, talk on their phones, and enjoy the warmth of the Indian summer day. I feel a slight twinge of satisfaction as I scan the crowd and evaluate the shorts (sloppy), jeans (too casual), and sundresses (summer's over) that are no match for my slouchy linen pants and peasant blouse. By comparison, I look dressed but not too fussy. I even managed to make my ponytail a little higher and less wilted than usual. My tan is still fading, so I have some natural color. If anything, I might be a little too warm in the long sleeve blouse.
I check the street for someone who looks like Cliff's photos, but honestly, I'm concerned if I'll even recognize him. It's a well-known fact that everyone filters their photos on the dating sites, and all of Cliff's photos show him wearing a ball cap, which is one of the reasons I bypassed him the first several times. Usually, someone who doesn't show their full face has something to hide, but his persistence, not to mention his good grammar, forced me to finally pay attention. It's not every day that someone throws a Shakespeare quote your way, and clearly, he likes animals. That's always a good sign.
The door swings open and a blast of cooler air hits my face as an older couple leaves the restaurant. Squaring my shoulders, I give myself a bit of a pep talk to quell the butterflies. It's only brunch, I never have to see him again, focus on the food, consider this a social experiment, it doesn't matter if he doesn't like me, I'm an acquired taste… I can do this.
Game On.
Chapter 5
Let the Games Begin
What an adorable restaurant. Couches dot the front entrance where people lounge around, cappuccinos in hand, and scan menus as they wait for a table. There are as many people waiting inside as outside, and I realize the space is deceptively larger than it appears—remarkable, given its cozy sense of intimacy.
Raw wood tables are blanketed by crisp white cloths, while mismatched chairs create an eclectic canvas that sets each table apart. Whitewashed wainscoting frames wallpaper that looks deliberately faded, like a book of pressed flowers whose colors have lost their vibrance but not their beauty.
As people mill around, I search for a hostess, finally realizing they're right in front of me, blending into the scene with only a large iPad in their hands. From the casual way that she's chatting and joking with guests, I gather that this place attracts a lot of regulars. It's not until she touches my arm that I realize I've been scanning the room anxiously for a glimpse of Cliff, hoping that I'll recognize him somewhere in the crowd.
"Did you put your name in for a table?" the hostess asks me again as I finally turn her way.
"No. Actually, I'm supposed to be meeting a friend. He said that he'd have a table and to just come in." A knowing look lights up her face, and she seems amused as I stumble over my words. Taking a deep breath, I start again. "I'm supposed to be meeting my…friend…Cliff."
"Ahhh. You must be, Josie," she says, grinning as she sweeps a look up and down my body. "You'll do nicely."
A flush colors my cheeks as I realize that she must know that this is a date. Ugh! I don't know why I feel so embarrassed that someone else knows that this is a first meeting, but from her satisfied look, it's obvious she's clued in.
"Is this your first time here?" Her eyes sweep my face again before lingering on my neck. I reach up self-consciously to feel my silver rune necklace on the silk cord and pat it reassuringly. It's one of my favorite pieces, and I'm not surprised that it caught her attention. The answer catches in my throat as she stops abruptly next to a table where a tall man begins to unwind himself from a tiny chair with a look of chagrin.
A tight gray t-shirt stretches across well-proportioned shoulders, the short sleeves emphasizing nice forearms. Black jeans encase long legs ending in black high top sneakers, while a braided leather belt wraps around a trim waist. No six pack there, just an average gut on an average guy—except, this guy is tall. Glancing up, I recognize the warm brown eyes lit with laughter as I continue upward to a shiny bald head. Holy Jean Luc Picard!
I'm a little stunned. While I suspected the baseball caps were hiding thinning hair, I never expected a cueball. Luckily, I'm one of the women who think a bald head is incredibly sexy on the right guy. And the wry look surveying me from his six foot five frame tells me that he is sexy, in a DILF kind of way.
My hand is engulfed in a warm grip as Cliff turns to the hostess.
"Shana, can you find me a chair that's not quite so petite? I really don't want to embarrass myself in front of Josie by sitting with my knees tucked into my chin."
"Mark said to send you to the tasting counter when she arrived. I've saved you two seats there. You know the way."
As she saunters away with a wave over her shoulder, I find my eyes following her enviously. Her short, angled bob bounces jauntily by her heart-shaped chin, and her short skirt shows off slim legs. My legs weren't that trim in kindergarten. Some women are just naturally gifted.
A slight cough interrupts my soft sigh as I realize I've been caught watching her when I should be paying attention to him. He seems amused by my embarrassment, even while a resigned smile breaks across his face. I don't know why I'm so tongue-tied, but words escape me as we simply stare at ea
ch other for a moment, taking each other in, until his slight tug propels me.
I'm pulled across the crowded floor toward the back of the restaurant, my stomach rumbling at the smell of bacon and caffeine wafting from tables loaded with croissants and coffee.
Normally, I'd be distracted by all the full plates making every table a discovery, but instead, I'm mesmerized by the tall back leading me through the restaurant. I've always had a thing for tall guys; the taller the better. I think it makes me feel smaller, more petite. Growing up with stories like Gone With the Wind, and watching Rhett sweep Scarlett up into his arms, only to carry her up a winding staircase, have ruined me forever. Especially since I acknowledge that my curves make it unlikely that anyone will ever sweep me into their arms that way—maybe more like a sack of oats over their shoulder in a fireman's hold.
Doing an internal eye roll, I acknowledge that situations like this tend to bring out my worst insecurities. I'm usually confident in my curves, but when I'm unsure about a man's admiration and surrounded by lithe bodies like the hostess, I develop a twinge of inferiority that is highly unattractive. In fact, it pisses me off. I'm better than that.
A chair being pulled out in front of me kills my inner monologue as Cliff stands patiently, waiting for me to sit, before dropping onto the chair next to me. The long stainless counter in front of us would fit the decor of a fifties diner, yet looks industrial chic tucked in the back of the restaurant, when bumped up against the vintage wallpaper. Several more people fan out to either side of us, and I realize we have the prime seats right in the center.
Corsets and Quartets Page 4
