by Penny Reid
Neanderthal Seeks Human
A smart romance.
By Penny Reid
http://reidromance.blogspot.com/
Caped Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.
Copyright © 2013 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
Caped Publishing
Made in the United States of America
First Edition (Advanced Copy): March 2013
EBOOK EDITION
DEDICATION
To my computer: I couldn’t have written this without you
To the software developers responsible for spellcheck: You are my everyday heroes
To Karen: I hope this makes you laugh and makes you proud.
To my readers (all 3 of you): Thank you
Table of ContentsCHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHATPER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 1
I lost it in the bathroom.
Sitting on the toilet, I started to panic when I noticed the graveyard of empty toilet paper rolls. The brown cylinders had ostensibly been placed vertically to form a half oval on top of the flat shiny surface of the stainless steel toilet paper holder. It was like some sort of miniature recycled Stonehenge in the women’s bathroom, a monument to the bowel movements of days past.
It was sometime around 2:30pm that my day exited the realm of country-song-bad and entered the neighboring territory of Aunt-Ethel’s-annual-Christmas-letter-bad. Last year Aunt Ethel wrote, with steady stalwart sincerity, of Uncle Joe’s gout, her two-count them: one, two car accidents, the new sinkhole in their backyard, their impending eviction from the trailer park, and Cousin Serena’s divorce. To be fair, Cousin Serena got divorced every year so… that didn’t really count toward the calamitous computation of yearly catastrophes.
I sucked in a breath and reached inside the holder; my hand grasped for tissue and found only another empty roll. Leaning down at a remarkably awkward angle I tried to peer into the depths of the vessel, hoping for another yet unseen roll higher up and within. Much to my despair the holder was empty.
“Shit.” I half whispered, half groaned, then suddenly laughed at my unanticipated joke. How appropriate given my current predicament. A bitter smile lingered on my lips as I gritted my teeth and the same three words which were floating through my head all day resurfaced:
Worst. Day. Ever.
It was, no pun intended, an extremely shitty day.
Like all good country songs, it started with a cheat’n fool. The ‘cheatee’ in the song was obviously none other than me and the ‘cheater’ was my longtime boyfriend Jon. My realization of his philandering arrived via an empty condom wrapper tucked in the back pocket of his jeans as I, the dutifully dumb girlfriend, decided to help him out by throwing some of his laundry in with mine.
I reflected on the resulting debate, after found condom wrapper was smacked to his forehead by my palm, I couldn’t help but think Jon had a good point: was I was upset with him for having cheated on me or was I disappointed that he was such a dummy as to put the condom wrapper back in his pocket after taking out the condom. I tried to force myself to think about the discussion, to focus on my words from earlier that morning:
“I mean, really, who does that? Who thinks to themselves: ‘I’m going to cheat on my girlfriend but I’ve got too much of a social conscience to leave my condom wrapper on the floor- heaven forbid I litter.’”
I stared at the blue and white Formica door of my stall, tearing my bottom lip though my teeth, contemplating my options, and trying to decide if staying in the stall for the rest of the day were actually feasible. Hell, at this point, staying in the stall for the rest of my life seemed like a pretty good option particularly since I didn’t really have anywhere to go.
The apartment he and I shared belonged to Jon’s parents. I insisted on paying rent but my paltry $500 contribution plus half of the utilities likely didn’t cover 1/16th the cost of the mid-town two bedroom, two bath walk-up.
I think part of me always knew he was a cheater, too good to be true. He was all the things I always thought I wanted, still believed I wanted: smart, funny, sweet, nice to his family, good looking in an adorkable kind of way. We shared nearly identical political views, ideological views, values; we were even the same religion. He put up with my eccentricities, even said I was ‘cute’ when ‘weird’ was the word I was most used to hearing about myself. He made romantic gestures. He was a wooer in a time when wooing was dead. In college, he wrote me poetry before we started to date; and it was good poetry, topical, related to my interests and the current political climate. It gently warmed my heart but it didn’t make my sensibilities explode; then again, I wasn’t an exploding sensibilities type of girl.
However, he also came from money; lots and lots of money. This was a thorn in our relationship since the beginning. I carefully measured each expense and dutifully tallied my monthly budget. He bought whatever he wanted when he wanted it. As much as I loathed admitting, I suspected that I owed him a lot. I always suspected that he or his dad, who always wanted me to call him Jeff but I always felt more comfortable calling him Mr. Holesome, pulled the strings which landed me an interview for my job.
Even after our fight, for it was the closest we’d ever come to a fight, this morning he told me I could stay, that I should stay, that he wanted to work things out, he wanted to take care of me, that I needed him. I ground my teeth, setting my jaw, firming my resolve; there was no way I was going to stay with him.
I didn’t care how smart, funny, or accepting he was; how certain my head had been that his welcoming surrender to my oddities meant that he was the one; or even how nice it was to be free of crushing Chicago rent, freeing money to spend on my precious Cubs tickets, comic books, and designer shoes. There was absolutely no way I was staying with him.
No way José.
An uncomfortable heat I’d suppressed all day started to rise into my chest and my throat tightened. The toilet paper roll that broke the camel’s back stared at me from the receptacle and I fought the sudden urge to rip it from the holder and my exact revenge by tearing it to shreds. Next I would turn my attention to the Stonehenge of empties.
I could see it now: the building security team called in to extract me from the 52th floor ladies room, decimated toilet paper cardboard flesh all around me, my panties still around my ankles, as I scream and point accusingly at my co-workers: “NEXT TIME REPLACE THE ROLL! REPLACE THE ROLL!!!”
I closed my eyes: Scratch that, ex co-workers…
> The stall door started to blur as my eyes filled with tears; at the same time a shrill laugh tumbled from my lips and I knew I was venturing into unknown, crazy-town territory.
As country songs do, the tragedy of the day unfolded in a careful, steady rhythm:
No conditioner leading to crazy, puffy, nest-like hair? Check.
Broken heel of new shoes on sewer grate? Check.
Train station closed for unscheduled construction? Check.
Lost contact after getting knocked in the shoulder as crowd hustled out of elevator? Check.
Spilled coffee on best, and most favorite white button down shirt? Guess I can cross that off my bucket list.
And, finally, called into boss’ office and informed that job had been downsized? Double check.
This was precisely why I hated dwelling on personal problems; this was precisely why avoidance and circumvention of raw thoughts and feelings was so much safer than the alternative. I hadn’t wallowed, really wholeheartedly wallowed since my mother’s death and no boy, no job, no series of craptacular events could make me do it now. After all, in the course of life, I could deal with this.
Or so I must tell myself.
At first I tried to blink away the moisture of my eyes but then closed them and, for at least the third time that day, used the coping strategies I learned during my mandatory year of adolescent psychoanalysis. I visualized myself wrapping up the anger and the hurt and the raw, frayed edges of my sanity in a large, colorful beach towel. I then placed the bundle into a box. I locked the box. I placed the box in the top shelf of my closet. I turned off the light of my closet. I shut the closet door.
I was going to remove the emotion from the situation without avoiding reality.
Gulping, after multiple attempts and with a great deal of effort, I finally succeeded in suppressing the threatening despondency and opened my eyes. I looked down at myself and pointedly took a survey of my appearance: borrowed pink flip flops to replace my broken pair of Jimmy Choo’s; knee length grey skirt, peppered with stains of coffee; borrowed, too tight, plunging red V-neck to replace my favorite cotton button down; my hands smoothed over my raucous accidental afro then pushed my old pair of black rimmed glasses, replacement for the missing contacts, further up my nose. I felt calmer, more in control, in spite of my questionable fashion non-choices.
Now, sitting in the stall, the numbness settling over me like a welcome cool abyss, I knew my toilet paper problem was surmountable and I squared my shoulders with firm resolve.
All my other problems, however, would just have to wait. It’s not like they were going anywhere.
~*~
As I approached my desk-
Scratch that, my ex desk
-I couldn’t help but wonder at the circle of curious faces that lurked around my cubicle, wide eyes stealing glances in my direction. They hovered at an appropriate blast radius; close enough to watch my shame unfold but far enough away to pass for a socially acceptable distance. I wondered what this kind of behavior said about my species, what was the closest equivalent I could draw as a comparison between this action and the lesser species in the animal kingdom.
Was it sharks circling around a hint of blood? I imagined, in this analogy, the sharks would instead be hoping to feast on my drama, my dismay, and my discomfort. I indulged my ethnographic curiosities and studied the hovering group, not really feeling the embarrassment that should have precipitated my exit but instead observed the observers, trying to read clues on their faces, wanting to see what they hoped to accomplish or gain; I was still wrapped in my detachment, I drew it close around me.
I didn’t register the drumming of approaching footsteps behind me nor did I realize that cubical land fell into a hush until two large fingers gave my shoulder a gentle, but firm, tap. I turned, steady but dazedly, and looked from the hand, now on my elbow, following the line of the strong arm, rounding the curve of the bulky shoulder, over the angular jaw and chin, until my eyes met with the familiar sight of Sir Handsome McHotpants’ piercing blue eyes. I cringed.
Actually, it was more of a wince followed by a cringe. And, his name wasn’t Handsome McHotpants. I didn’t know his name, but I recognized him as one of the afternoon security guards for the building and the one which I’d been harmlessly admiring-slash-stalking for the past five weeks. I never learned his name because I had a boyfriend; not to mention McHotpants was about twenty thousand leagues out of my league (at least in the looks department) and, according to my friend Elizabeth, likely gay. Elizabeth had once told me that men that look like McHotpants usually wanted to be with other men that look like McHotpants.
And who could blame them?
More often than I was comfortable admitting, I reflected that, even if his tastes were resolutely fixed on womankind, he was one of those people who were just decidedly too good looking; he shouldn’t have been possible in nature. It wasn’t that he was a pretty guy, I was certain he would not look better dressed in drag than ninety-nine percent of female kind.
Rather, it was that everything about him, from his consistently, perfectly tousled light brown hair to his stunningly strong square jaw to his faultless full mouth, was overwhelmingly flawless. Looking at him made my chest hurt. Even his movements were gracefully effortless, like someone who was dexterously comfortable with the world and completely secure with his place in it. He reminded me of a falcon.
I, on the other hand, always hovered in the space between self-consciousness and sterile detachment; I believe my gracefulness was akin to an ostrich’s; when my head wasn’t in the sand people were pointing at me and saying: what a strange bird!
I’d never been comfortable with the truly gorgeous members of my species. Therefore, over the course of the last five weeks, I couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze, always turning or lowering my head long before I was in any danger; the thought of it was like looking directly at something painfully bright. Therefore, I admired him from afar, like a really amazing piece of art that you only see in photographs or behind glass in a museum. So we affectionately referred to him as Handsome McHotpants; more accurately, Elizabeth and I knighted him Sir Handsome McHotpants one night after drinking too many mojitos.
Now, looking up into the depths of endless blue through my black framed glasses, my own large eyes blinked and the cloak of numbness started to slip. A tugging, originating just under my left rib, quickly turned into a smoldering heat and radiated to my fingertips, up my throat, to my cheeks and behind my ears.
Why did it have to be Sir McHotpants? Why couldn’t they have sent Colonel Mustard le Mustache or Lady Jelly O’Belly?
He dropped his hand to his side as he cleared his throat, removed his gaze from mine and glanced around the room. I felt my face suddenly flush red, an unusual experience for me, and dipped my chin to my chest as I silently mocked myself; I finally felt embarrassment.
I took stock of the day and my reaction to each event.
I knew I needed to work on being engaged in the present without becoming overwhelmed. It occurred to me that I was demonstrating more despair over a stall of empty of toilet paper and the presence of a gorgeous male security guard than discovering that my boyfriend cheated on me, leading to my present state of homelessness, not to mention my recent state of unemployment.
Meanwhile Sir McHotpants appeared to be as uncomfortable with my surroundings and the situation as I should have been. I perceived his eyes narrow as they swept over the suspended crowd. He cleared his throat again, this time louder, and- suddenly- the room was alive with self-conscious movement and pointedly adverted attention.
After one more hawk-like examination of the room, as though satisfied with the effect, he turned his attention back to me. The stunning blue eyes met mine and his expression seemed to soften, I guessed most likely with pity. This was, to my knowledge, the first time he had ever looked directly at me.
I saw him, watched him every weekday for the last five weeks. He was why I started taking a late lunch a
s his shift started at one-thirty. He was why I now frequently ate my lunch in the lobby. He was why, at five-thirty on days when Elizabeth met me after work, I began loitering in the lobby by the arboretum and fountain; I would peek at him through squat tree trunks and tropical palm bushes, knowing my friend would not be able to meet me in the lobby any earlier than six.
McHotpants and I stood for a moment, uneasily, watching each other. My cheeks were still pink from the earlier blush but I marveled that I was able to hold his gaze without looking away. Maybe it was because I already put most of my feelings in an invisible box in an invisible closet in my head or maybe it was because I realized this was likely the twilight of our time together, the last of my stalkerish moments due to the recent severing of gainful employment, but I didn’t want to look away.
Finally he placed his hands on his narrow hips and lifted his chin toward my desk; his deep voice gravelly, just above whisper quiet, “Need help?”
I shook my head, feeling like a natural disaster on mute. I knew he wasn’t there to actually help me. He was there to help me out of the building. I huffed, spurning his offer. I was determined to get my walk of shame over. I turned, pushing my black rimmed glasses up my lightly freckled nose, and closed the short distance to my desk; the loaned flip flops made a smacking sound against the bottom of my feet with each hurried step. Smack, smack, smack.
All my belongings were packed in a brown and white file box. Members of the human resources department did it while I was told to wait in a conference room then excused to use the restroom facilities. I glanced at the empty desk. I noted where my pencil cup had once been; there was a clean patch of circle surrounded by a ring of dust. I wondered if they let me keep the pencils or if they removed them from the cup before packing it into the box.
Shaking my head to clear it of my ridiculous, pointless pondering, I picked up the box which- unbelievably- held the last two years of my professional aspirations and walked calmly past McHotpants, avoiding his gaze, to the reception desk and the elevators beyond. I knew he was following me even before he stopped next to me, close enough that his elbow slightly grazed mine as I tucked the box against my hip.
