The Hot One

by Lauren Blakely

  She inhales through her nose again and stares through slits of eyes. “Fine, you lucky bitch. Then, how’s this? Number five. The two of you want different things.”

  I have no rebuttal. I can’t protest because I don’t know the answer. He might want different things. I might, too. I don’t know yet what he wants, besides me. Tyler has shown he wants me intensely, but what does that mean? Does he want the same type of future we mapped out once upon a time, or just someone to spend the night with now and then? Does he want a girlfriend, a playmate, or a partner? More than that, what do I want from him? Sure, I agreed to go to a party in a week. But what am I opening myself up to by buying wigs and wearing them? What comes after the party, and am I even ready for that?

  Bells clink lightly against glass. A pair of thirty-something women stumble out of the store. But it’s the fun kind of stumble, the one girlfriends do as they laugh and wrap arms around each other. One of the women sports a strawberry-blond bob and the other wears a lemon-yellow shoulder-length do. I vaguely wonder why they have wigs. For fun? For necessity? For a party? But the answer’s not apparent as they walk on by.

  Just like the answer to Tyler and me.

  I turn back to Nicole. “We might want different things, but I don’t know what he wants. And more important, I don’t yet know what I want. That’s actually why I said yes to the party. To try to figure that out,” I say, speaking plainly now. No teasing or hard times, just the truth.

  Nicole reaches for my arm and circles a hand softly around it. “It’s hard, to know what you want.” She squeezes. “It’s the hardest thing, isn’t it?”

  “And to know if going for it is worth the risk.”

  “It’s insanity out there,” she says and sweeps her arm in an arc encompassing everything but us, I suppose. “It’s all a big complicated sea of garbage and madness and magic all at once, and sometimes you can’t separate one from the other.”

  “Garbage and madness and magic?” I arch a brow and laugh. “Is that your next column on dating and mating in the online, Snapchat, Plenty of Fish, sexting, dick pic, no-one-knows-what’s-true-anymore world?”

  “Maybe it should be. But then, that’s the basic premise of what I do—navigate the sea of shit and dating.” She shades her eyes with her palm like she’s checking out the rolling waves from the deck of her ship.

  “Captain Nicole, aye aye.”

  Her eyes shift to the end of the block, landing on the couple strolling in our direction. Penny waves. Her beau, Gabriel, is by her side. He’s tall and lean, with longish hair and tattooed arms. The two of them are a perfect pair. He’s crazy for her, and she’s mad about him.

  Nicole nudges my shoulder. “But I’m not done. Here’s the final point—people don’t change.”

  I gesture to Penny and her man as my evidence. “Penny’s with Gabriel. He’s changed.”

  “Their story is different. Fate intervened and prevented them from seeing each other.”

  Before I can answer, the pair in question arrives at our side. Ever the sophisticated European, Gabriel drops cheek kisses on Nicole then me.

  I can’t deny that I adore his classy side. And him too, because he’s made Penny incandescently happy. Ergo, he gets gold stars from me. “Gabriel, tell me something. Do people change?”

  He chuckles, then squares his shoulders. “Of course they do.”

  Nicole casts a doubtful look his way, and Gabriel places his hand on his chest as if to say who me? “I’ve changed. I’m not the idiot I was when I was twenty-four.”

  Nicole rolls her eyes then waggles her fingers, dismissing him. “You’re disqualified. Be on your way.”

  “As a matter of fact, I will. I’m heading to my restaurant. Where I will create a delicious dessert for my lovely fiancée.” He roams his eyes over Penny possessively. “Something I would have done for her years ago, and I do now. Perhaps some things don’t change.” He winks and kisses Penny good-bye.

  Penny turns to us. “He wants me to have something when I get home tonight from our night out.”

  I sigh happily. “He’s so sweet.”

  “And sexy,” she adds, with a naughty glint in her eyes. She gestures to the store. “Are we going in, girls? Or are we going to stare at the leprechaun wig in the window all night? Incidentally, if you can get Tyler to wear that wig I will buy drinks forever and ever and then some.”

  I yank open the door. “Don’t leprechauns have red hair, though? Isn’t it more a Jolly Green Giant wig or an Emerald City wig?”

  Nicole pipes in. “Or a Wicked Witch wig.” Nicole taps her finger on her chin. “Hmm. Now that I realize we can truly torture your ex by making him wear any wig we choose, I might actually approve of this date with him.” Nicole spins and points to Penny. “I know I’ve already lost your support.”

  Penny laughs as she fiddles with a cherry-red hairstyle. “I just don’t happen to agree with your more—how shall we say—strident position?”

  Nicole spots a long blond wig. “I’ve always wanted to see if you blondes have more fun,” she says to me, then asks the shopworker if she can try it on. The woman brings us thin nylon caps to cover our hair under the wigs. As Nicole adjusts the blond locks, she says, “Look, I don’t know if people can change. I just worry. I know you all think I’m a hard-ass—”

  “Gee,” Penny interjects, placing her index finger on her temple. “Why would anyone think that?”

  Nicole sighs. “And I don’t deny being a practitioner of tough love. But the reality is this—I’m a witness to the hazards, pitfalls, and potholes of dating in this decade, and I’ve seen much more of the bad and the ugly than the good. I don’t want to see Delaney get hurt, and I’m not convinced men can change.”

  She peers into the mirror, tugs the bangs down lower, and spins around, showing us her new look.

  “But hairstyles can definitely change,” I say. “And you look good as a blonde.”

  Penny fiddles with her new fire-engine ’do and meets our gazes in the mirror. “But see, I do think people can change. Maybe it’s because I work with animals, but just hear me out. I’ve seen what adopting a pet can do for a person. How it can soften hearts and change priorities and turn you into someone who loves another creature nearly as unconditionally as that creature loves you.”

  I wrap an arm around her shoulders and squeeze. I adore the dog-loving heart of my bestie. “You’re right.”

  Nicole tilts her head back and forth, like she’s weighing Penny’s observation. Then she utters a quiet, “That’s true.”

  “Why don’t we let Delaney find out for herself?” Penny asks us through the reflection. “Go out with him and see how much he has changed.”

  As I adjust a sapphire blue wig, I don’t just marinate on Penny’s questions about Tyler. I turn them back on myself. Sure, I want to know how he’s different, but I already see signs of that. What I also want to know is this—how have I changed?

  I’d like to think I’ve changed for the better. I want to believe that my career shift from the sharp edges of law to the more peaceful waves of massage made me a better person. But, did it? A pebble wedges into the corner of my heart. Irritating and completely unpleasant, it’s a reminder that I didn’t tell Tyler the whole truth about my change of heart regarding my career. I didn’t open up fully to him about the phone call with my dad, even though Tyler seemed patently honest with me.

  Do I need to share that detail with him? It’s not like I hid something terrible from him.

  But even so, I didn’t tell him the full truth at the time, and I haven’t told him now either. I know why I hold back—if I don’t share everything I might not be fully hurt. By keeping parts of myself just for me, I like to think I can guard them from hurt.

  I know that’s not true though.

  We can’t ever protect ourselves from hurt, from broken hearts, from damaged love.

  But we can try to live our lives differently.

  If people do change, I sure as hell ought to be lo
oking at myself first. It should start with me.

  As I run my fingers through the blue hair, I vow to tell him the full story about why I didn’t go to law school, even if I feel like I’m taking off all my armor with the mere mention of my father’s words—words that had sent my future into a whole new direction.

  This chance with Tyler isn’t only a romantic one. It’s an opportunity to face the past and deal with the future.

  I raise my chin and stare at my friends. “One week. I’m going to give it a week.”

  Penny shrieks and claps. Nicole nods solemnly then drapes her arm around me.

  “Group hug,” Nicole says, and we all join in, setting aside our differences and coming together.

  They might come at my love life from opposite sides, but in the end I have what any girl wants from her friends—solidarity. Maybe it’s odd, maybe a tad controlling, that my friends have so much say in my love life. But they’re my family, we’re as close as sisters, and I need them in the same bone-deep, always-there-for-me manner. We stick our noses into each other’s lives more than most, but we do it out of love.

  Theirs is a love I never worry might leave. That’s why they are my inner circle. That’s why they have my unconditional trust.

  “One week,” Nicole echoes. “You have my full support. But you need to decide at the end of the week. If you keep giving him more and more time, then you’re giving him the keys to breaking your heart, and trust me on this—a broken heart the second time around doesn’t just hurt twice as much. The pain is exponentially greater.”

  Human beings always have the keys to breaking each other’s hearts. One week, one year, a lifetime—doesn’t matter. We can always hurt the ones we love. Even so, I do understand why she wants me to be wise, and on this time limit, I have to agree with her. “I’ll give it a week.” Then my tone lightens, and I shrug like this is no big deal. “What’s the harm in a week?”

  Neither replies, and I hope I don’t answer my own question the hard way.

  “We’ll be here no matter what.” Nicole grips my shoulder, then whispers, “Especially if you decide at the end of the week you really want Trevor instead.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, about Trevor . . .”

  Nicole arches a brow. “What about him?”

  I update my friends on the latest as we find a perfect wig for my ex-boyfriend, who’s now jostled his way to the front of the dating pack. I buy the wigs and drop them in a canvas bag, then we head to our Girls’ Night Out, enjoying dancing, drinks, and friendship, as I reflect on whether people can change.

  I think about my mom and how strong she was after my father left. She was always a tough woman, but she had to shore up that foundation when she became a single parent, remaining sturdy for us. That’s change, too—it’s the kind that intensifies your core. I think of my brother and how easy it would have been for him to turn into a fuck-up, a messed-up teenage boy who skipped school after his daddy left. Instead, he doubled down on his studying and, like me, he won a scholarship to college.

  We were forced to change.

  But do we only change when we have no choice? A fault line had split our lives into before and after, and we had to shed our old selves. Can men and women, wanting to win back an old flame, choose to change in a deep and true way?

  I don’t have the answers to that, but as I rewind to the morning, and the night before, and the massage table earlier in the week, and the phone calls, I know Tyler and I are more than two elements in a beaker that combust on contact.

  We are more than the physical.

  We combust for so many reasons. Because of history, of emotion, of connection, of respect, of need, of understanding.

  Because of a once-great love.

  And because of who he is now, the man I’m spending time with these days.

  That’s why at the end of the night, after I find my way home and settle into bed, I write back to Trevor.

  * * *

  Dear Trevor,

  * * *

  Your trip sounds amazing, and I know you’re going to have a great time. I want you to know that while I’m confident we would have a fantastic date, I need to cancel before we even start. In the last few days, after we went out, someone has come back into my life, and I’m going to explore what’s there. It wouldn’t be fair to keep you both in play.

  That’s why I need to send this email now, before I give it a go with him. Rather than hedge my bets, even though I know you’d be a great guy to bet on and you’ll make someone ridiculously happy, I should say thank you and good-bye.

  My best,

  Delaney

  * * *

  After I hit send, the stone in my heart shrinks, claiming less of my real estate. There’s more to say, and more to do, but I’ve taken one important step.

  I was patently open with Trevor. I need to do the same with my ex.

  The next morning, my phone dings with a jackpot full of notes. A sweet reply from Trevor, thanking me for my honesty. A Facebook message from Tyler, asking me if I’m free for lunch. And an email from Joe Thomas telling me my father now lives in Vancouver, Canada, that he’s still married, and he’ll have an email and a phone number for me shortly.

  Do I want the address, he asks?

  Nerves skate over my skin. I do, and I don’t. I don’t, and I do. But I also know if I have his address, I’ll just google it over and over.

  I tell Joe I’ll wait. I’ve been waiting for years.

  I make plans with Tyler, and I do the one thing that makes the most sense.

  Since I want him desperately, I decide not to sleep with him yet.

  To prove to myself that I can change.

  18

  Tyler

  * * *

  She says yes.

  Hell fucking yeah.

  She adds just lunch, and I send her a GIF of a cartwheeling eggplant, because I understand what she needs—just lunch. She needs to know that the heat of the mailroom encounter isn’t all we still have in common. The passion between us is incontrovertible, but she wants to know we’re more than that.

  Over a pesto artichoke sandwich and fries at a sidewalk café in the Eighties, she gives me the details of her night out dancing with her friends.

  “We could have entered a dance marathon, it seemed.”

  “Did you do the Macarena?”

  “All night long.”

  “How about a conga line?” I ask, demonstrating the moves in my chair.

  She nods. “And then we did a square dance.”

  “Hope you wore your cowgirl boots.”

  She shakes her head. “I wore silver heels,” she says, with a strangely shy little smile. Then she’s not so shy when she meets my eyes and says, “And I thought of you.”

  Images flash before me that make my throat dry. I groan, then lean across the plate that holds my chicken sandwich and tell her in a rough voice, “I like hearing that. I thought of you last night, too, and then I did a lot more than think. And I’m also sure you’d look hot in cowgirl boots.”

  The next day I get my reward.

  She texts me a location for breakfast, and when I meet her there, she’s got on a short jean skirt, a red checked short-sleeve blouse, and cowgirl boots.

  “Fuck me now,” I mumble as I give her a kiss on the cheek.

  She laughs. “Maybe not right now . . .”

  “But later?”

  She shrugs, but the gesture comes complete with a wink that says we’ll see.

  We sit down and I order eggs, but no bacon.

  After the waiter leaves, Delaney tips her forehead in my direction. “No bacon?” She stretches across the table and places the back of her hand on my forehead. “You’re not feeling so hot today?”

  I laugh. “Nope. I feel great. Just wanted to prove I can abstain.”

  “Prove to whom?”

  I point at the gorgeous woman sitting across from me. Her blond hair is swept up in a high ponytail, and her cheeks are morning-fresh and rosy. “You.”r />
  Her brown eyes seem to sparkle. “Your abstinence is impressive, but you do know you won’t offend me if you eat bacon?”

  I nod. “I know you’re not offended, and I appreciate that.” Delaney’s eating choices have always been for her, not something she tries to impose on others. “But let’s call a pig a pig. Bacon isn’t that good for you. And, truth be told, maybe some of your vegetarianism is rubbing off on me.” I hold up both hands. “Not saying I’m going the full nothing-with-a-face route. I just mean I’ve cut back. I’ll survive without it.”

  An eyebrow rises. “You sure?”

  I pretend to choke, then to cough, then I slump in the chair as if the last breath is fading from me.

  A few seconds later I sit up, and she asks me if I’m going to live.

  “It’ll be rough.”

  She pretends to toss her napkin at me. “You’ll learn to love fake bacon. With avocado and lettuce,” she says, then as if an idea has just taken root, her eyes light up. “Actually, I’ll make one for you someday. My veggie BLTs are six shades of awesome.”

  “Six shades? Not five and not seven, but six?”

  “Yes. Six shades just like six toes. And maybe you’ll get to experience all six shades of my world-renowned BLT.”

  “You mean FLT. Fake-on.”

  She laughs as she folds the napkin across her lap once more, “What do you most like to do outside of work?” Her eyes drift northward. “Besides . . . that.”

  “Besides that, I’d have to say rock climbing,” I answer. “Also, rafting and kayaking. And going to watch the Dodgers kick the asses of any New York baseball team.”

  “Some things never change,” she says with a smile.

  “And some things never should.”

  She holds up her water glass in a toast, and I clink mine with hers.

  The next day, we go for another run in the park in the early dawn. At the end of our five miles, we bump into Oliver. He’s stretching at the edge of the reservoir.

  “Nichols, how’s it hanging?” he says in his best imitation of an American accent.