The Someday Jar

by Allison Morgan

  Never have I felt so certain and confident in a moment and yet so completely powerless. Wes is like a drug. At once, I’m addicted. I want more.

  Minutes—hours—days?—pass before we part. After I exhale a long satisfied breath, I smile at him.

  “Just so you know.” He carefully sets the jar on the desk beside us, squeezes me closer, our bodies pressed tight together, his lips a fraction of an inch away from mine, and says, “I prefer you to a hundred milk cows.”

  Read on for a special excerpt from the next novel by Allison Morgan

  Can I See You Again?

  Coming Summer 2016 from Berkley Trade!

  “What’s wrong with this one?” I aim my cellphone toward my approaching client, Nixon Voss, and show him the lengthy text from another of his disappointed dates.

  He settles into the chair across my desk in smooth dark jeans, nearly swallowing the leather slingback with his long California-tanned frame. Nixon tugs at the cuffs of his pale pink button-down shirt, a color not many men can pull off. “It’s nice to see you, too, Bree. You look good. Beautiful morning. Don’t you think?”

  “Forgive me.” I match the tease in his voice. “I figured we skipped the pleasantries once you started breaking hearts in the double-digit range. How many does this make now? Eleven?”

  “She’s hollow.”

  I glance at her text and count three rows of crying face emojis. Okay, so she’s not a nano-physicist. She is, however, a blue-eyed San Diego Chargers cheerleader whose toned thighs make me regret the wedge of Oreo-crusted cheesecake I ate for breakfast today. And yesterday. “You know, there’s no bonus for the most dates. No, buy eleven get the twelfth free.”

  “Now you tell me. All this time I’ve been holding out for a Bree Caxton and Associates keychain.”

  “Where’d you take her? And don’t say for coffee.”

  “Then I won’t say it.”

  “My God, Nixon. You’re impossible.” I flick a stray paperclip in his direction. He reaches for it, but the wire fumbles through his grasp. “You do realize you’re trying to impress these women?”

  “Why suffer through dinner if we can’t muster a decent conversation during a cup of coffee?”

  “Because women like dinner. Women shave their legs for dinner. Dinner shouts to the world that you chose her, above all others, even if just for the evening. And trust me, a valued woman is ten thousand times more likely to open up. In all ways.” I arch an eyebrow in his direction. “Dinner is the slow seduction.”

  “‘Slow seduction,’ huh? I’ll try and remember that.” He laughs and pulls his chiming phone from his pocket. “Excuse me, one sec?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  I flip my phone end over end and think about how revealing ringtones are. When waiting for a dentist appointment or pedicure, I try and peg other people’s chosen signals based on their magazine selection, shoe style, tattoo, or haircut. It’s judgmental. Based on conjecture. But given that my livelihood depends upon my ability to read energy and body language, I’m happy to report that nine times out of ten, I nail it.

  Hard to say if my sixth sense stems from my psychology degree, books I’ve devoured on human behavior, college parties where I bet my friends twenty bucks I could hook up total strangers, or because I was born on Halloween.

  Whatever the reason, I’m grateful for the intuition and over the last six years, I’ve capitalized off of people’s unique characteristics.

  Nixon remains focused on his screen and I consider my own ringtone, realizing I don’t differ much from the predictable. My hair is draped around my shoulders in loose curls and my makeup is minimal: peach lip gloss, mascara, and a dusting of bronzing powder. I’d rather suffer a kick to the liver then eat a McRib—real pork, my ass—all my cleaning products are paraben and phthalate free, and, I’m a pointed toe away from conquering an eight-angle yoga pose.

  So, it’s no surprise that my ringtone is a Fratelli’s song, an organic indie rock band I fell in love with after my boyfriend, Sean, took me to their concert last spring. We drank too many Amber Bachs, danced until a blister formed on my pinkie toe, then wired and giddy—likely from marijuana smoke blanketing the air—fooled around like teenagers in the back of his Audi A4. For two weeks, I had a cup-holder-shaped bruise on my left hip.

  “Sorry,” Nixon says, pointing at his phone, “small fire at the office. Give me a minute?”

  “No problem.”

  Nixon types his reply and I spin around to face my computer. I delete a few junk e-mails for last-minute Ensenada cruise deals and detox vitamins, suppressing my giggle when I come across an offer from Size Matters that reads: SMALL PRICE, BIG PENIS.

  I then order three rolls of Christmas-themed wrapping paper from my landscaper’s daughter who’s fund-raising for a field trip to the San Diego Zoo. They’re $18.95—per roll—but who can say no to a pigtailed second grader with a gap between her front teeth?

  Allowing Nixon a few more moments, I open the New York Times webpage, clicking on the bestsellers list. The familiar black-and-white page fills the screen.

  It’s surreal to think that in two months’ time my very own book—which is without a doubt my hardest fought and proudest accomplishment—will hit the shelves. My self-help debut Can I See You Again? chronicles a handful of my most memorable matchmaking love stories, funny anecdotes about first meetings that didn’t go well—one guy arrived in a U-Haul, tossed his date a pair of gloves, and asked her to help him unload—along with tips and suggestions to find the one-and-only.

  Not only will a successful book explode my business, but the bags under my eyes from late nights fixed at the computer, tears of uncertainty pooled on my keyboard, and calloused fingertips from typing, deleting, and typing again will culminate into something tangible. Something I created.

  As I scroll down to this week’s current number one bestseller, Fallen, a twinge of wistfulness prickles my heart.

  Jo.

  My grandmother’s smiling face and apple-wallpapered kitchen flash through my mind as I recall the countless Sundays we spent together during my early teenage years, lingering in bookstores or lounging on her sofa, soaking up every number one novel on the list, even those with saucy parts. We shared a yellow highlighter and marked our favorite lines, writing comments in the margins.

  Then, anteing with raisins, Ritz crackers, pretzel sticks, or her favorite—liqueur-filled chocolates—we’d wager on the upcoming week Times bestseller rankings. We’d bet which novel jumped to the top spot, which fell below twenty, how many authors were female, the number of times Love, Forever, or Dead was used in titles, how cute we thought the male authors might be.

  It never mattered who won. We combined our snack piles and munched on the winnings, laughing at nothing special, enjoying the afternoon with just us two before my parents came to pick me up. I can still smell the hint of black cherry on Jo’s breath when she kissed me good-bye.

  It’s hard to believe that fifteen years of Sundays have passed. Its even more disheartening to admit that since the day I moved out for college, my visits became less frequent, less welcome, more guarded. Worst of all, Jo’s smile has faded into a thin line of disappointment and it doesn’t take a body language expert to recognize the layer of regret clouding her eyes.

  So along with sidebars and strategies, curse-filled rants, doubt and resurgence, I’ve invested my heart and soul into Can I See You Again?—not to mention a sizable chunk of my savings account for a publicist—and there’s nothing I want more than to earn the coveted ranking.

  Ease the sting of all that I’ve ripped away.

  With a cleansing breath, I clear my thoughts and return my attention to work. My book means nothing without a successful business to base it upon.

  Nixon remains concentrated on his screen and it occurs to me that he’s a capable guy. The woman he marries will never need to c
all a plumber to fix a leaky toilet or a handyman to repair a screen door. On top of his handiness, Nixon’s a sharp, diligent businessman with an iron-will dedication to his company. So, it seems fitting, as he tap-tap-taps at his keys, that his phone’s alert is a series of three rigid bumps. Thump-thump-thump. Like the knocking on a door.

  Given that I appreciate his work ethic and value his account—especially his on-time monthly payments—I don’t mind waiting another minute or two for him to finish his conversation.

  He’s still typing.

  Okay, that’s long enough. “Medical emergency?”

  He says nothing.

  “Beached whale?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Have you been called to deliver a baby on the freeway? Should I take cover because we’ve launched into WWIII?”

  Nixon lifts his focus to offer a what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about scowl.

  “We’re discussing your life, remember?” I point at his phone. “What’s more important than love?”

  “Look.” Nixon tucks his phone into his pocket. “I appreciate your help. I really do. But you know this whole arranged dating thing isn’t me. I’m here because my mom forgets I have a business to run and insists . . . actually, commands . . . that I have a date on my arm for my cousin’s wedding. If I don’t, she’ll have to explain to friends and neighbors and the caterer that the Voss family name is in jeopardy because I haven’t married and spawned a grandchild, which in her eyes, is equivalent to the earth slipping off its axis. So, according to my mom, if I don’t have a girlfriend at the party, I’ll be responsible for the end of humanity. And, I’m man enough to say, my mom scares the shit out of me.”

  I fiddle with a file, trying not to laugh at Mrs. Voss’s expense even though Nixon’s not off base. I recall her unannounced visit several weeks ago. She fixed herself in the very chair where Nixon sits now, wagging her plump middle finger at me, explaining that each passing day is one less she’ll be alive to spend with her grandchildren. And the Holy Lord can strike her dead before she’ll allow children without marriage. She’s giving Nixon until his cousin’s wedding before Mama-bear steps in and finds a daughter-in-law herself. She all but threatened to cut Nixon out of her will if he doesn’t produce a grandchild in the next couple of years. Truth be told, she scared the shit out of me, too.

  No, that’s not true. Yes, her approach is abrasive, but I admire her conviction, her certainty. Who can fault a woman for pinpointing exactly what she wants from life? A woman who isn’t afraid to stand up and declare it. And though Nixon may disagree, he’s a lot like his mom, confident and steadfast. But the two differ in the sense that work is his baby. And, I imagine it’s hard to spoon-feed mashed sweet potatoes to a Fortune 500 Company.

  “Let’s be honest.” I tuck my hair behind my ears and prop my elbows on my thick glass desk. “You’re not here because your mom said so. You’re here because you’re a thirty-six-year-old man with no one to share your life. Your house is cold and sterile. There’s probably expired milk in your fridge. And more than likely, grey hairs are sprouting up in inappropriate places. Your comfort zone is shrinking and, at the end of the day, you’re alone.”

  “Shit, Bree. Don’t sugarcoat it. Give it to me straight.”

  “I know it sounds harsh.”

  “It sounds like you’re stalking me.”

  “Only when your shutters are open.”

  He laughs.

  “Seriously, though, love isn’t easy. Don’t get discouraged because we had a few misfires. I’m good at this. I know what I’m doing.” I thumb toward the wall behind me blanketed with framed pictures of some of my happy couples I’ve introduced over the last six years. “Seven of my clients have named their firstborns after me, three their dogs, and another his pet squirrel.”

  “A squirrel?”

  “Yeah, that guy was kinda creepy. So are squirrels. Anyway, my point is,” I scoot toward the edge of my seat and say, “I’ve facilitated relationships between aging lounge singers and triathletes. I’ve married pilots to prison guards, CEOs to sanitation workers, vegans to Paleo dieters. Bree Caxton and Associates is one of San Diego’s most prolific matchmaking companies. I’ve devoted my life to finding love and have a ninety-eight percent success rate.” I lean closer toward him. “Do you realize, Nixon Voss, you’re my two percent?”

  “Are you really afraid of squirrels?”

  “I wish you’d take this seriously.”

  “Is it the soft, bushy tails or the doe-like eyes that terrify you?”

  “Very funny. You know, if I had a nickel for every time you said a girl’s too dull, too fake, or too—”

  “You’d have fifty-five cents.” He folds one leg over his knee and ties the laces of his charcoal suede oxford-style shoes, noticing my sneer. “Hey, now . . . my mom makes that face at my dad. You and I aren’t married. You’re not allowed to give me that look.”

  I flip open his last date’s file, reaching for her headshot. “Here is a perky blond with a smile worthy of a Colgate commercial. She’s gorgeous. You chose her. But you don’t care to see this darling girl again, because . . . ?”

  “She seemed too obvious, a little young.”

  “Young? That’s what I’ve said for months. And for months, you’ve continued to override my choices and select girls, eleven to be exact, that aren’t your right match. And for some crazy reason, I’ve allowed it! But no more.” I wave her picture in the air. “You think you want a twentysomething model/actress with big boobs and a tight ass, but you’re wrong.”

  “How are big boobs and a tight ass ever wrong?”

  Fair enough.

  “Fine. Think of it this way, you’re a venture capitalist who negotiates with financiers across the world, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You speak three languages and have a master’s degree in business.”

  “I do.”

  “How can you expect to find a connection with some barely legal play toy? It isn’t probable. You don’t share the same energy. Girls that age don’t care about exchange rates or investment returns. They don’t care about variances in sea levels or the shipping economy. They care about hair extensions, polishing their nails with the color of the season, and mango-flavored vodka. That’s who they are. That’s who they should be.” I point at Nixon. “But that’s not you.”

  “It’s not?”

  “It’s not. You need a thirtysomething, strong, independent, less obvious woman who is filled with a driving passion. Someone who challenges you.”

  Nixon leans against the chair’s backrest and scans me from head to toe through my desk. My neck muscles tighten. Not because I regret my clothing choice. After all I’m dressed in Tony Burch buckle flats, dark-rinsed jeans, an ivory blazer, and a grey v-neck cotton top with an oval stone pendant dangling from a long gold chain. I tense with hopes Nixon doesn’t recognize the outfit from the Banana Republic window mannequin across the street.

  Yes, sure, I may be unoriginal, but at least I look cute.

  A mischievous corner-smile curves his lips. The same smile that I’m certain has garnered its way into countless women’s panties. Not that it matters, but the smile does have its charm.

  “So . . .” he says, “I need someone like you?”

  “What? No, not like me.” I reach for a pencil, though I’ve nothing to jot down. “Well, yes, technically, I suppose . . . exactly like me.” Bree, what have you done? You’ve given Nixon the wrong impression with your flirty and sassy ‘you’re my two percent’ garbage. Some expert you are, leading the poor guy on. I pull the lapels of my blazer closer together, then with the eraser, tap the framed picture of Sean and me paddle boarding in Cabo. “Sorry, Nixon, not me. I’m here for you professionally.”

  “Whoa. I was kidding. Did you think . . . me and you?” He laughs loud enough to grab a glance from my secretary, Stacia,
seated in the next room.

  It isn’t that funny. No funnier than that spotted patch of jaw fuzz you call a beard.

  “You’re too old anyway,” he says.

  “I’m thirty-one!”

  “Yep.”

  I shoot him a look, but, truth be told, his comment stings, more so since I filled out a health insurance questionnaire two weeks ago and, thanks to my last birthday, had to check a lower box. A lower box.

  But my eggs won’t shrivel up until I’m forty-something, right?

  “I’m just giving you a hard time,” Nixon says. “You’ve made yourself clear.” He nods as if about to say something more, but stops. For the briefest moment, his jaw bone clenches and he stares at his feet.

  I’ve struck a nerve.

  Two seconds ago I was prepared to kick Nixon in the shins—hard—but now, a wave of loneliness washes over me. Not for me. For him. Nixon’s a good man. Yes, a tad smug, making a mockery of my livelihood, but all the same, he deserves a loving relationship, someone to hold hands with when shopping for air filters on Saturday afternoons or snuggle close to on lazy Sunday mornings. The type of effortless connection I have with Sean.

  As I think about my boyfriend of four years, a sense of calm replaces my unease. I think about how his beach-colored hair reflects the season, dark like wet sand in the winter and light as dry sand in the summer, a result of surfing and impromptu weekend volleyball games. His skin bronzes the color of a mocha latte and we mark the calendar noting how long his swim trunks tan line lasts. January 9th is the record. My sun-screened body never makes it past October 1.

  We hardly argue—aside from him getting upset when I fall asleep during Bruce Willis movies (try as I might, his acting is like a horse tranquilizer to me)—or the few times I didn’t laugh at one of his lame lawyer jokes. But, at the end of the day, there’s a treasured comfort level that we share, a priceless familiarity.

  My eyes dart to my purse where I tucked the Post-It note Sean stuck on my bathroom mirror this morning while I showered.