by Marika Ray
“I’m making a skirt.” I adjusted the material to start sewing the hem along the bottom.
There was a long pause. “Like, with a hot glue gun? Or staples or something?”
I shook my head, which is quite a talent while still holding a cell phone between one’s head and shoulder. “Seriously? Who makes a skirt with a hot glue gun?”
“Well, excuse me. You take up some crazy new hobby and I’m supposed to just know? Gonna make your shoes too now? Maybe get a horse and ride that to work?”
Now the pause was on my end. “Wow. Someone is grumpy. Hew not giving you what you need?”
“Hey, keep Hew out of this. What’s with the skirt, Martha Stewart?”
“Well, according to my list, I need to make something myself and wear it. Men derive some high level of primal satisfaction in knowing a woman can do these sorts of crafts.”
I heard a loud snort from the other end. “You know you’re single-handedly setting back the women’s movement by at least half a decade, right? I mean, what are you going to do next? Give up your right to vote so you don’t threaten the intelligence level of the male species?”
Pressing my foot onto the pedal and feeding the material through the machine slowly, I responded, “Calm down, gender inequality freedom fighter. I’m just making a skirt, not fetching ‘the man’ his slippers. Now put the filter on, I’m putting you on speaker.” I stopped the sewing machine to put the phone down on the table next to me. Not a moment too soon either, as my neck started to spasm. “It’s hard to believe, but I didn’t call you to discuss the unfair division of labor. I gotta tell you about my pies!”
Gabby laughed, sounding like my best friend for the first time this phone call. “You know, I really should stop giving you a hard time about this plan. It’s turning out to provide a ridiculous amount of entertainment for me. If you’re happy, I’m happy. Now spill. Did the apple pie give you any American Pie moments?”
I fed more material through the machine, biting my lip in concentration. “You know that makes us sound really old when you reference movies from twenty years ago, right?”
“Get to the good stuff,” Gabby deadpanned.
I rolled my eyes, which is never a good idea around a sharp needle. “I’m not sure how much good stuff there really is. I brought my pies to work and they brought all the boys to the yard, but they were so busy stuffing their faces, I barely got to talk to them. I went around the room checking out their ring finger, and if it was bare, I was on ’em like white on rice. I got a lot of ‘thank yous’ and pats on the back, but no phone numbers. You know how in marketing they say it takes seven touches before people take notice of something?”
“Um, yeah?”
“Well, I got to thinking that maybe I need to repeat my pie offering a few more times to really get their attention.”
“Or maybe—and this is radical, so hold on to your skirt—you should drop the man-pies idea and move on to another thing on your list. I think it’s safe to say that tactic didn’t work. I’d hate to see you turn your kitchen into a bakery when it’s not netting you any actual men.”
Starting the sewing machine back up, I went super slow, adjusting as I went to keep the seam straight. Or straight-ish. “You might be right. I’ll think on that, but that’s not all I got. I had dinner with the new next-door neighbor Wednesday night and I tried out a new tactic.”
“Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysterious?”
“Yep, that’s the one. He brought his son over, who totally clicked with Clark. He brought me flowers, but the conversation was a little awkward, like every interaction with him. But get this: I grilled steaks like the list said to do!”
“And? He got on one knee and asked for your hand?”
“No, smart-ass, I spat out a half-chewed piece onto my plate.”
“What? Gross, Lil.”
I giggled. “I know. It said to make the steaks rare, but I went a little overboard. Or under board. They were so raw it was freezing cold in the center! I wondered why Jameson had stopped eating his steak. Guess he likes his meat without a side of salmonella.”
“A swing and a miss!” Gabby used some weird accent she swore sounded like Vin Scully, the legendary announcer for the Dodgers, but actually sounded like some East Coast mafia man from a made-for-television movie.
“Yeah, yeah. One of these days I’ll find the thing on the list that works. Just you wait. I can feel it.” I got to the end of the hem, tracing backward and forward before cutting off the thread and examining my work. “What was even funnier was Jameson’s behavior.”
“In what way? And wait a second. You haven’t told me what he looks like yet. I only saw him from behind and from far away. Don’t leave your bestie hangin’.”
I squinted my eyes and pinned the zipper into the top of the skirt. This was dangerous territory, both in the conversation and in the sewing project. “Let’s see. He’s tall, got dark hair that he gels on top. Kind of reminds me of a 1940s debonair kind of guy. Probably uses some old-school pomade to get his hair like that. He’s muscular, but not overly so. His eyes are like a non-color.”
“He sounds delicious so far. But what the hell is a non-color?”
“I don’t know exactly. It’s like his eyes are straight gray. And I’ll be honest, he’s attractive in a classic kind of way, but every conversation with him has been awkward at best, so don’t bark up that tree.”
Gabby sighed. “Okay, fine. But I reserve the right to see for myself how eligible this neighbor might be. Tell me about this odd behavior.”
Happy she was distracted from matchmaking, I started sewing the zipper into the skirt. “It started when I stood up to grab something from the kitchen. The second I stood up from the table, he stood up too. And stayed standing until I got back. And then when I hopped up to put the steaks back on the grill, he stood again. So a few minutes later I stood up for no reason just to test it out. And he stood up too! What’s up with that?”
“Hmm. I don’t know. That’s definitely weird. I’ll have to Google it and see if I can come up with—”
“Ouch!” I pulled my hand back and examined my fingertip. While sewing the zipper, I’d jabbed myself hard with one of the pins in the top of my middle finger. A drop of blood bubbled up and I took a deep breath to keep from freaking out.
“You okay?” I heard Gabby’s voice calling to me from the phone, like she was down a long tunnel.
Most moms learn to deal with all manner of bodily fluids. I mean. You’re a mom. You had to clean up diapers from day one with substances that were too ghastly to talk about. Kids ate a whole hot dog and then vomited all over you, chunks of half-digested pressed meat tangled in your hair. Shit happens. A lot.
So you’d think I’d be able to handle the sight of blood a lot better than half the population. Turns out blood was my kryptonite.
“Blood,” I mumbled. “Call ya back.”
I hung up on her and went into the kitchen for a paper towel. If I got the blood covered up I’d be fine. Once the paper towel was wound around my finger, I instantly started feeling better. A quick trip to the medicine cabinet in the downstairs bathroom and I got a Band-Aid on my finger without further wooziness.
“Crisis averted,” I said out loud to the empty room.
“Did you say something, Mom?” Clark called down from upstairs, the movie blaring through the open door.
“I’m good! Just talking to myself again,” I called up. The door closed and the movie muted. They were used to my crazy.
Cautiously, I went back to the sewing machine and finished the zipper. Figured I’d better try it on before I hand-sewed the button in place. Shimmying out of my jeans, I stepped into the skirt and pulled it up, pleased to see the hem length was perfect. Not too long like an old maid, but not so short my cellulite was showing. I had standards, okay?
I reached back and zipped it up, needing to suck in a little before it went all the way up. It was a bit tighter than I’d prefer, but the idea of letting out a seam seemed mor
e daunting than sewing the damn thing in the first place. My sense of achievement dimmed until I remembered that part of my fifty ways was to go on a diet. If I did a little of that torture, my skirt actually might fit just fine.
The doorbell rang out, startling me. I wasn’t expecting anyone, so I approached the door slowly and looked out the peephole. It was dirty and therefore hard to see out, considering I hadn’t cleaned the peephole in—well, never. But even through a film of filth, it looked like Jameson on my doorstep.
I swung the door open and gave him a genuine smile. After our dinner, I decided I liked the guy. Yeah, he was awkward, but he was a nice person and our boys seemed to get along. And he was even a smidge good-looking underneath all those grandpa sweaters.
“Jameson! Come on in.” I pulled back and let him pass, taking the moment to check out the crease in his slacks as he walked by. Damn, he must have an industrial strength iron.
He twirled around and flashed his teeth in an easy smile. He had a nice one. His expression could be on the harsh side most of the time, so when he smiled, it practically transformed his face.
“Sorry to drop in uninvited, but I thought we should hash out the carpool plan for the week ahead. I would have called, but then I realized I don’t have your number.” His gaze dropped and he shifted, leaning one shoulder against the wall, suddenly very invested as to what was in his pockets.
“Oh, yeah, that’s a good idea.” I walked ahead of him into the kitchenette area where my sewing machine was set up and where I’d left my cell phone. I could swear I felt his gaze traveling along the back of my bare legs. My cheeks flushed as I remembered I had on the skirt I was making. Probably looked a little weird with the T-shirt I had on.
His throat cleared behind me. “Is that, um, a new skirt? It looks lovely.”
I grabbed my phone and spun around, flattered by his compliment but still uncomfortable in this weird outfit. My skirt wasn’t ready for its debut into the world. I guess Jameson would be its trial run.
“Thanks. I just made it this afternoon. Still have some finishing things to do to it.” I trailed off, out of breath now that I had to hold my stomach in with the tight material pressing into my belly.
“Wow. You made it yourself? That’s impressive. I can’t even make toast without burning it. I can’t imagine making my own clothes.” Jameson smiled warmly, and despite my doubts, I started to feel beautiful under his gaze.
“Thanks,” I gushed again. Great, now I was repeating myself. I unlocked my phone and pulled up a new contact. “Okay, what’s your number?”
He gave it to me and I called it so he had my number too. Something about giving him my phone number felt intimate. Maybe it was the compliment stacked on top of it. We were just parents working together to give rides to our kids, but it felt like there was more to getting my number than the carpool idea.
His face turned into a harsh frown and dashed my hope that he was wanting my number so he could call me. I was oddly unsettled, way too excited for even just a moment about this virtual stranger calling me.
“Did you hurt yourself?” He reached out and brushed his fingertips over the hand holding my phone. I felt the touch to the tips of my toes, but ignored that feeling to focus on the conversation.
“Yeah, just a pinprick from sewing.” I shrugged like it was nothing, because it really was.
“Better get a new Band-Aid. Looks like it’s bleeding through.”
The blood drained from my head and I swayed as I stood there. “Really?”
He looked up at me, then back down at my finger. “Really.” Then back up at me. “Are you okay?”
My eyes glazed over. “I really hate blood.”
He straightened off the wall. “Tell me where the Band-Aids are. I’ll change it out for you.”
As much as that sounded like exactly what I needed, I couldn’t let him deal with my bloody Band-Aid. That was just gross.
“Oh no, that’s a kind offer, but I got it.” I walked toward the bathroom, still not looking down at my finger. Even in my freaked-out haze, I could hear Jameson trailing behind me. It was more comforting than annoying to have him there to witness my ridiculousness. Like I could just sense that he’d take care of me if I let him.
When I reached the bathroom and pulled the Band-Aids out of the medicine cabinet, Jameson grabbed my hand, careful to stay away from the offending appendage. He slowly peeled off the Band-Aid and I instinctively looked away the moment I saw red. I should have pulled away and taken care of it myself, but there was something oddly addictive about someone taking care of me. He held my hand with such attentiveness I kept it there, mesmerized by his big hands engulfing mine.
I’d covered all manner of wounds with Band-Aids when my kids hurt themselves, all the while holding back my nausea and trying to get it over with as soon as possible. Not Jameson. He moved with precision, taking his time to get it right. His eyebrows pinched together as he examined my finger. Not only did he smooth a new Band-Aid in place, but he put a dot of ointment on the Band-Aid in case of infection. All without conversation. Just touch.
I suddenly felt guilty for all the times I’d hurriedly bandaged my kiddos and sent them off before I passed out. I wondered if they’d felt the care and attention I felt in this heady moment.
Like a lightbulb suddenly illuminating the conflicting emotions racing through my system, I realized the list was finally working! It said to wear a Band-Aid so the gentlemen ask you about it. Probably to drum up conversation, but to also evoke sympathy. Honestly, it sounded insane when I read it, but hot damn, it was the only thing that seemed to have worked so far. And boy, did it work.
Jameson cleared his throat again and stepped back, his hands dropping mine slowly. He straightened up and nodded quickly before spinning around and walking back to my living room. I took a deep breath and pressed my newly bandaged hand to my stomach before following him.
“Thank you. I really don’t do so well with blood.” My voice rang out loudly in the room, like even the walls were startled we were back to talking, not touching.
A small smile slid across his lips. “No problem at all.”
So, here’s a small detail about me that really only Gabby knows. When I get flustered, I also get a little weird. Like my brain short-circuits and I engage in all manner of weird acts with clearly no forethought. Like a newborn foal trying to walk for the first time, all limbs and jerky, uncoordinated movements. I explain all this so you understand my quirkiness and perhaps extend a little more forgiveness when I do stupid things.
Because I was flustered all right. This man had held my hand with such tenderness, I’d felt it in the pit of my stomach. And then add in the blood and my thoughts were jumbled. On top of this fluster sundae was the kernel of hope flaring to life that this list of fifty ways might actually glean results.
The list had also said dropping the handkerchief still worked. That was the only thought that flittered through my brain at that moment. So I did. Drop something, that is. And that’s where some forethought would have been helpful. Dropping a handkerchief is an elegant move as it floats down to rest gently against the man’s feet. Reaching out and grabbing the first thing within reach—my sewing scissors—is not so elegant, come to find out.
I threw those scissors down in what my addled brain thought looked like a careless mistake, but was in fact more of a dart-throwing motion. Jameson jumped back as any reasonable person would when a sharp object was being hurtled in their direction. The scissors, thankfully, flew to the ground without striking him, letting out a thunderous boom when they met with my wood floor. They lay there motionless, both of us staring at the scissors like we couldn’t believe they were there and not on the table where they should have been.
My brain finally caught up to my body’s actions and wanted to dig a deep hole and disappear. Considering I didn’t have the callouses for that much shovel work, I considered—finally, some consideration—the option to pick up the scissors and go with the lie
that it had been an accident. Jameson didn’t make a move to pick them up, so clearly my list wasn’t working again, so the only option was to feign ignorance.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see them there.” I leaped forward and bent down to pick them up. Just as my hand closed over the handle, my skirt decided to have no part of catching me a man. A loud ripping noise joined the weird sounds this room had endured all day, followed by a gust of cool air on my backside. The skirt that had once been too tight, now felt ridiculously loose.
I whipped up faster than my kids when they smelled bacon in the morning and shuffled backward, scissors clutched to my chest. My eyes were wide, staring at Jameson, gauging his reaction. I wondered if I was acting normally enough for him to let it go. It wasn’t a good sign when my brain started laughing at me in my own head.
His eyes shifted from my face, to the scissors in my hands, then down to the rapidly falling skirt of mine, then back to my face. I saw a mix of emotions there that would have been comical on any other day if it had been happening to anyone else. When his gaze went through the cycle again, I saw concern when he looked at my face, fear when he took in the scissors, and a hunger when he traced the movement of my skirt shifting down my legs with each shuffle backward.
The final straw to the awkward stare-down happened when my skirt made a run for it and dropped down my legs entirely, leaving me there in my T-shirt and underwear.
And a blanket of humiliation.
8
Jameson
The sun wasn’t even up yet, but I was awake, enjoying the still moments under the warm covers before the morning hustle began. My alarm hadn’t gone off yet, but my brain was up and firing, thinking about Lily-Marie. Not as a science experiment, but as a person. A friend.
A psycho.
A silent bubble of laughter rolled up from my chest. I hadn’t even had coffee yet and a big smile was taking up residence on my face. The woman intrigued me more than I could say, but the truth was...she was a little scary.
