You see, I’ve only had sex with three men, and consequently, two of those relationships resulted in tiny humans whose sperm donors wanted no part in raising.
When I was nineteen, and in my sophomore year of college, two years into a broken heart, I met Tate Tenning. He was a senior and the star of the football team. His blond curls, blue eyes, and perfect ass were just too much for my drunken mind to refuse. We hooked up in the backseat of his Explorer during a frat party, and a whirlwind romance ensued. We hit it off in a big way. That man could make my body scream, and he was a good boyfriend, too. Tate was kind, attentive, and he worshipped the ground I walked on. We traveled a lot and partied even more. About a month after he graduated, we took a trip to Vegas to celebrate, and when we returned, I had a ring on my finger. He was a good husband, for the most part, and we were happy, young, and in love. Fast forward a few months, a positive pregnancy test, sonogram, and two heartbeats later...Well, I’m sure you can piece together the rest of that story.
Lake and Landon were born six months after our divorce. Tate didn’t even bother coming to the hospital, but I’d wanted my children to have a father. I had hopes that he would eventually come around. So, I put his name on their birth certificates, and at my father’s insistence, filed for child support. For a few years, he was no more than a check in the mail. His measly seven hundred dollars a month barely put diapers on their asses and clothes on their backs. My parents paid for their daycare so that I could finish school and made sure we always had food on the table. They’d already been paying for my apartment since I’d started college, so they simply upgraded me from a one bedroom to a two, and we made it. It was hard as hell, but we did it.
The plan had always been to return to my hometown of Cedar Grove after school, but my best friend, Gina, who was sticking around to work for her cousin, Dillon, at his new practice begged me to join her. I’d already completed my masters in psychology, so Dillon paid for our additional training, and once we’d completed our obligatory hours of observation, Gina and I went to work at NOLA Sexual Health.
Around the time the boys turned five, Tate suddenly decided he wanted to be a part of their lives. You know, after the hard stuff: the crying, constant diaper changing, and up-all-night feedings. Legally, he had visitation rights, so I couldn’t stop him from taking them on his weekends. Sometimes, he did; other times, he didn’t. He gets them just often enough to ruin all of my hard work, returning two disrespectful little shits. And just when I’ve finally whipped their little asses back into shape, he miraculously shows up and the cycle starts all over. But the worst part of him blowing in and out of their lives by far is the way he hurts my boys. There is nothing worse than seeing the disappointment on my babies’ faces when that man promises them he’ll show and then doesn’t.
For a very long time, it was impossible for me to date. Between being a single mother to twin boys and living almost three hours away from any family, it was difficult to find time for myself. I barely had time to shower. Trust me, a man was the least of my worries. But, on the weekends the twins left to go to Tate’s house, I found myself with nothing but time. Gina grew tired of watching me mope and declared his weekends girls’ weekends. I had forgotten how fun it was to drink, dance, and to not have to be the responsible one all of the time. And, I may have allowed myself to get a little carried away.
While we were out one night almost three years ago, I met a Latin god by the name of Alex and apparently got drunk enough to forget that sperm makes babies. Alex and I had only been seeing each other for a few months. Wait, that sounds so formal. I’ll just call it like it was. We’d been fucking, but only while the boys were away. I was obsessed with Alex’s body and addicted to the things he did to mine. After having been responsible for my own orgasms for so long, it was nice to pass that task over to his more than capable hands and, um...appendage.
When I found myself unable to get out of bed and puking my guts up for a solid week, Gina showed up at my house with a drugstore bag, which she shoved into my chest before she ushered me into the bathroom. She wished me luck and shut the door. I don’t know why it hadn’t dawned on me before. Maybe I was in denial. But when I saw that little rectangular box, my reality hit me like a ton of bricks. Not again.
If you do the math, you already know that little booger came out with a big fat positive. I was thirty years old, unmarried, and pregnant with my third child.
When I told Alex, he offered to pay for an abortion. I may have been irresponsible in failing to use protection, but I was not going to end my pregnancy. I’d already come to terms with the fact there was going to be a baby. The only question in my mind at that point was whether or not he would be involved. I wasn’t fooling myself. We were not a couple, and I had no intention of trying to force a relationship between us just because I’d wound up pregnant. But, I wasn’t going to make the same mistake that I had with Lake and Landon. If he wasn’t going to be an active part of this baby’s life, then I wouldn’t force it. I left him with the knowledge that I was having this baby, with or without him, and that if he chose to be a real father to our child, I would not stand in his way. But if he wasn’t going to be there, and I mean really be there, then I didn’t want his money, and he could pretend the whole thing never happened. Alex didn’t even take a full day to think it over before texting me back. His message simply read, “I’m out.”
You would think that all of this would make me a cynic. Believe it or not, I’m not. I know there are good men out there, but I have neither the time nor the energy to search for my prince charming anymore. My three boys, my job, and my vibrator will just have to sustain me for the foreseeable future.
But, my clients give me hope. They prove to me every day that there are still princes living among the pigs. Men who are willing to humble themselves in order to do whatever it takes to save their marriages. I may not know how to pick ’em, but I’ve got a list of clients a mile long that will tell you I know how to fix ’em.
And that, dear friends, is how I became a walking contradiction—a thirty-three year-old sex therapist with absolutely no sex life.
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Excerpt from Bashful by Lo Brynolf
* * *
ONE
IT’S OKAY TO be single at this point in my life. I’m twenty-one. With Evie as my roommate, I don’t need a man—she gives me all the emotional support I need. Sure, I can’t have sex with my bestie, nor would I want to, but that’s what Bob is for. He’s good people. If by ‘people’ I mean my battery-operated boyfriend. He can be a real dick sometimes. Get it?
It’s still better than pining away for the guy I fell for two years ago—Sebastian Moore. He gave me a heart-on something fierce. And he’s coming back today. Back to Michigan College. Back into my circle.
I closed my laptop, finishing the journal entry for my women’s psych class. Taking notice of the red numbers glowing on the microwave, I jumped off the couch and slipped into my boots. Shit. My three-hour break between classes had flown by, and if I didn’t haul ass, I’d be late.
After double-checking the lock on my apartment, I flew through the convenience store adjacent to campus to pick up an afternoon sugar fix. Without it, I was a basket case. It was common knowledge in my friend circle that if I wasn’t hopped up on caffeine or sugar, there was a high probability I’d walk into something and hurt myself.
Taking another sip of the icy slushie, I moved with purpose toward my next class. Why is everyone looking at me funny? Sure, it was fifty degrees outside, but in Michigan, that was practically flip-flop weather. Shrugging off their dubious looks, I crossed onto the grass to cut across campus. Catching my reflection in the windows of the science building, I stopped and did a double take.
Before rushing out of the apartment this morning, I hadn’t stopped for a second to check my appearance or my choice of shirt. “I’m not weird—my mother had me tested” was written in large block letters over my chest.
Whatever. I was lucky I woke up in time to shower and put on real pants. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. It’d be easier to blame the insane amounts of caffeine I’d consumed, or the late-night Internet scrolling, but those were mere distractions from the real reason.
I was about to see Bash for the first time in nearly two years.
The sunlight warmed my bare arms as I glanced back one last time, smoothing the flyaways off my forehead and back into my messy bun. It sucked that this was quite possibly the last nice day of the year. I shaded my eyes with my hand, bummed to see some of the trees lining the sidewalks had yellowing leaves. Michigan College was gorgeous when the trees transformed into bursts of fiery reds and bright oranges, popping against the contrasting green knolls between buildings. I shook the contents of my cup, collecting the rest of the sugary goodness into the straw. Once I’d successfully made the telltale empty-slurping noise, I chucked it in the garbage and moved toward MacArthur.
MacArthur Hall was a two-hundred-year-old monster of a structure that held theatre classes, dance studios, and music rooms. Plus, it was home to my favorite place in the world—the Julian Theater. At least a dozen accomplished entertainers had once graced those halls, and some of their energy remained, inspiring future hopefuls like me.
It was also where I was about to see the guy who’d been giving me panic-induced sweats since I’d heard he was coming back.
Wiping my hands down the front of my distressed jeans, I pulled the double doors open and was met with the cool breeze of air conditioning and the musty smell that only old buildings can provide.
I can’t see him. I’ll vomit. No guy wants a girl who can’t keep down her fluids.
“That’s when I had to pull out my emergency accessory. I’d rather be caught dead than wear a tie with the same pattern as Professor Jenkins—that crotchety old man can’t even handle a proper Windsor knot.”
“Hey, Tucker,” I sang, rounding the corner. “Playing your version of who-wore-it-better again?”
He nodded in greeting, ending the call and shoving his phone in the pocket of his chinos. He kissed each of my cheeks before opening his arms in a hug, enveloping me in welcome before he pulled back and sighed.
Tucker was one of few people I’d stuck to like glue freshman year. With him, I had an endless supply of laughs and a lifetime cheerleader and friend. I gave him a once-over, and as per usual he was perfectly polished at all times. From his pomade-styled blond hair to his boat shoes sans socks, he was the epitome of preppy-chic. He wore his horn-rimmed glasses with pride, and I’d been sworn to secrecy that they were non-prescription. “It’s all about the look,” he’d told me once. “It’s like my mating call to attract the kind of men I want.”
“I’m not judging, Callie. I’m simply verbalizing my disappointment in elderly men who can’t pull off paisley. Besides, Jenkins wouldn’t notice my insults even if I stood two feet in front of him with cue cards.” He scoffed, placing a fist on his hip and jutting it out. “He literally can’t hear or see that far. He needs to retire.”
“Aw, but he’s so cute hunched over like that. You know I love little old men.”
“That’s creepy, girlfriend.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” I replied, sticking out my lower lip. “All old people are cute, with their wrinkles and suspenders and anti-slip shoes.”
Okay, maybe it is weird.
“Well, discounting your love of the elderly, his tie matching mine is enough reason for him to retire. He can spend all that free time sitting on his porch yelling at kids to get off his lawn.”
Out of nowhere, Tuck let out a high-pitched scream. Heads turned as he jumped up and down, clapping his hands together.
“Bash, my lovely fellow, how are you, darling? Get over here before I cry!” Tucker yelled down the hall, hands flailing dramatically.
A spike of nerves creeped from my stomach to my chest.
He’s here. Right now.
My body wasn’t ready for the instant reaction, anxiety peaking and shooting sparks down my arms and legs. Sebastian ‘Bash’ Moore had held my heart since I’d met him three years ago when we were both freshman. Inhaling a deep breath to calm my nerves, I lifted a hand to wave as Bash winked at a passing student. Crap, his head was still turned away. Nothing like waving like an idiot at someone who didn’t see you.
I stared as he walked in my direction, studying the changes in his face. A once smooth jaw was now covered in delicious, dark stubble, highlighting his plump lips. His hair was longer on top, cropped at the sides. The dark, shiny locks were mussed, like he’d just rolled out of bed. He walked with such confidence—that hadn’t changed. He wasn’t the boy I knew our first year of college; he was all man now.
Holy mother of hotness.
I suppressed a laugh as he clutched his chest over-dramatically in response to Tucker’s outburst. Bash jogged the last few steps, enveloping his best friend in a bear hug. Those two were a pair, all right, inseparable for as long as I’d known them—until Bash was offered an opportunity to study abroad in England for a year. When he left, it wasn’t on good terms, and he broke my heart by not saying goodbye.
Tucker hadn’t been aware of my crush, but he knew I’d taken the loss just as hard as he did. I encouraged Tuck by creating a countdown until Bash came back, insisting that everything would go back to normal when he returned.
When Bash decided to extend his abroad program for another year, I wanted to die. I wanted to curl up into a ball and wallow in my loss; a loss that was one-sided. I wanted to be dramatic and lay my emotions out for all to see. Instead, I succumbed to Tucker’s idea we mourn through fashion. He insisted we wore all black for an entire week. Being a theatre major, it wasn’t difficult to oblige.
Now he stood in front of me, and all I could do was stare and act like I’d never seen a hot guy before. Good job, Callie.
“Oh, what a sight for sore eyes. Tucker, my man!” Bash spun himself and Tucker around so they were facing the groups of students in the lobby. “What was I thinking being away from this perfect specimen for two years?” he called out loudly, flinging an arm wide as he garnered stares. He chuckled, flicking Tucker’s bowtie off-center as he turned to greet me.
“Hey, Calliope, long time no see.” He smirked, the deep dimple on his left cheek emphasized even through his stubble as he took a step toward me. His gaze traveled down the length of my small frame, a slight grin at the worn red Chucks on my feet.
“Cheerio, old chap,” I said, punching his shoulder. Pulling my hand back, I rocked on the balls of my feet in revulsion as I questioned what in the fresh hell was wrong with me. I was completely horrified. I’d had two years to think of the perfect wow moment for the first time he’d see me again, and I gave him a shitty accent and a messy bun.
Rubbing his arm, Bash laughed. He must’ve seen the panic in my eyes. “You been working out all this time? I may bruise, Sweets.”
“Oh yeah, all that heavy lifting of scripts and props gave me some badass guns. Better watch out, mister, I haven’t eaten yet today and I’m feeling a little stabby,” I responded, flexing. My arms were toothpicks.
He reached forward and wrapped his hand around my bicep, stroking my skin up and down with his thumb. He moved closer, his worn black jacket brushing against my chest.
“You feel good to me, Callie,” he whispered, millimeters away from my ear. The heat of his breath sent a shudder down my spine. He pulled back, his green irises sparkling with mischief. I’m pretty sure my jaw fell to the ground.
Tucker cleared his throat, breaking my trance.
“Hello, still here.” He waved largely, almost smacking a passing student. Shoving his left sleeve up, he lifted his arm vertically and tapped the face of his watch. “Yeah, hi, hello. Tick tock, sweethearts.”
Bash pulled his phone out and checked the time as well.
“Crap, you’re right.”
“If we’re late to Voice & Dialect, Jenkins will force us to speak in Callie’s weird attempt at Cockney the entire period.”
I rolled my eyes. Tucker’s snark wasn’t anything new.
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Excerpt from Coming Up Roses by LK Farlow
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
CASH
Tonight’s the night. I’ve got everything planned to a T. I made sure to take off early from work so that I could get to the house before she did to set everything up. I’ve got her favorite Italian food from Luigi’s riding shotgun. I have candles and her favorite flowers, lilies, to place all around the dining room table—and the bed.
But more important than any of that is the black velvet box—you know, the ring-holding kind—that’s tucked into my front pocket.
I park my truck down the street so that if she happens to come home early, she won’t know I’m here. Gathering everything up, I head toward the house, my arms full and a spring in my step.
It’s so damn gorgeous this time of year—cool October mornings and just a hair past warm at midday. Maybe Kayla will want to plan the wedding for this time next year. I pause at the sound of my phone ringing in my pocket. Shuffling the items I’m hauling, I carefully slide my phone from my pocket. Seeing that it’s my brother, I swipe to answer the call.
“Jake, what’s up?”
“Cash.” He sighs. “Are you sure you want to do this?” He’s never been very pro-Kayla. Come to think of it, none of my family is. Friends either, for that matter.
“I’m sure. She’s been so off lately. Distant. This’ll get us back on the right path.”
“Bro, don’t rush into something just because you think she wants it. You’re smarter than that.”
Doppelbanger Page 26
