Model Behavior

by Carter, M. E.

  “Do you know what happened when I went on social media today, Matthew?”

  “Uh… you saw spoilers for one of your shows?”

  “Well, yes. Why do people do that? Not all of us watch in real time. Really, it’s disgraceful how inconsiderate people can be about that. It’s like with books. I mean, do I want to read a book after you’ve told me the entire story in your recommendation? Not really, Debbie.”

  “Who’s Debbie?” I ask. I’m so confused.

  Sighing, she mumbles something to herself and then picks up her phone. Tapping at the screen a few times she shoves it in my face. Oh yeah. That.

  “And?”

  “And? Matthew, do you think I want to be tagged by my friends on videos and screen shots of your bare ass. I mean, yes I wiped it until you were six but I don’t need to see it now.”

  “I was wiping my own ass by the time I was six.”

  “Sorry to break it to you son, but you were not. Hell, you still had to strip naked to sit on the toilet and refused to poop in public until you were seven. That’s not the point. The point is, your ass is all over the internet.”

  Barking out a laugh, I take her phone and start scrolling through her notifications. If she only knew how many of these same tags and messages I get daily. Not to mention on a cover reveal day. I won’t bother sharing with her the very personal invitations I receive either. Today is a little more active since it was a video cover reveal, sexy music and all.

  “This isn’t even my ass, Mom. It’s my hip.”

  “Don’t sass me, Matthew.” She snatches her phone back and grimaces as she sees what I’m looking at. “That is a hint of crack. Hence, ass.”

  “Mom, I’ve done more provocative covers than this before. Why is this one so bad? It’s just the top of my ass and I’m wearing a towel. Also, for the record I had on boxer briefs too.”

  “Yes well, it’s still weird, and I may have to unfollow you. I hate to be unsupportive but it’s very awkward.”

  I don’t bother pointing out she reads the books I’m on the covers for and insists on telling me all about them. There are no boundaries when it comes to those conversations. Hearing my mother recap a story about two men and the coed they both fell in love and, ultimately, into bed with, was not my favorite conversation. Nor was the one about the alien dragon or whatever it was that fell in love with a shape-shifting lumberjack. I still don’t know how something like that works, but that’s not my job. My job is to pose and give my most smoldering look, usually while half naked. The story inside the pages of whatever cover I grace is for the author to handle. I will continue to happily collect the paycheck and invest the money with the single goal of sending Calypso to college.

  “Can we talk about something else?” I ask.

  Nodding she says, “Any word on Olaf?”

  Shaking my head she frowns and begins tossing the vegetables she was cutting in oil and seasoning before dumping them in a pan and sliding it in the oven. While I may not be staying for dinner, I know what will be in a Tupperware container with my name on it when I pick up Calypso tomorrow.

  “What are you doing tonight?” she finally asks.

  “Just the usual. Meeting a few of the guys for drinks and maybe some pool.”

  “I wish you’d find yourself a sweet girl to spend your time with. Both you and Sprite need a lady in your lives.”

  “And that’s my cue to leave.” Rising from the chair, I grab my keys and round the counter to kiss her on the cheek. “I’m outta here. Love you, Mom.”

  “Love you too, son. Make sure you wear a condom this time.”

  Chuckling, I stop by the two puzzle masters and say my goodbyes before heading out the door. While all I want to do is go home, order a pizza, and watch a college game, I turn my truck toward the sports bar across town. It’s one night a week, and I need to suck it up like a big boy.

  When I pull in the parking lot I see it’s a little busier than it was last weekend. My mom’s words rattle around in my head as I park and make my way inside. I wonder for a minute how many other single parents are here. Statistically speaking, probably quite a few. Heading toward the corner we commandeer each week I see the guys are already in a game of pool so I sit down and pour a beer into the empty glass waiting for me.

  Taking a sip, I look around the room. It’s your run-of-the-mill sports bar with large televisions mounted on the walls, a different game or sporting event on each. A large oval bar in the middle of the space takes up a large portion of the room while the far side of the establishment is lined with booths and tables. I spot a few familiar faces and return the smile of a blonde I met about eight months back. Lisa? Lana? Lori. That’s it. Lori with the fondness for pink, glitter, and handcuffs. My initial thought when she pulled those out was more on the kinky side than scared. Then she started saying random things that made no sense. Each statement with a sexy purr of a voice and lustful look in her eyes. I was this close to calling an ambulance, thinking she was having some sort of psychotic break because none of what she said made sense. But then I realized they were lines from books.

  Books I had been on the cover of. She wasn’t just anyone, she was a fan. Or, more accurately, a bit of a stalker. So not 5150 crazy, but batshit, nonetheless. Her admission that she’d been coming to the bar for weeks, watching and waiting for the right opportunity to approach me freaked me out. When she stopped quoting romance novels, she began telling me the name of our future children, and I quickly feigned gastrointestinal issues and ran like the house was on fire. After she reached out to me via social media a few days later, I tactfully told her I didn’t think it would be fair to see each other again for fear of what it would do to my career if I had to give up modeling for her. She seemed to buy that and swore she’d never want to keep me from my passion.

  Interesting that someone would think eating a strict diet, working out seven days a week, and posing almost naked was a passion, but I went with it and managed to let her down easy, and without having to buy thicker blinds. Last thing I needed was to give in to her full lips, sexy come-ons, and end up with another unplanned pregnancy. Something about Lori screamed “hole in the condom.”

  The realization of the thoughts that I’m having and what my passions really are, hit me hard. Mom’s right. I do need to find someone. I’m almost thirty years old and the only semblance of a romantic relationship I’ve had in six years is seeing the same girl more than twice in a six-month time frame.

  Tossing back the rest of the beer, I pull a twenty from my wallet and slide it under the empty pitcher. My buddy Kevin looks over, eyebrow raised, and I say, “Next one’s on me. I’m going to head home. Call you next week.”

  Before he can respond, I walk away and head home. Not that there will be any romantic possibilities there either. But, at least at my house, nobody is poking holes in condoms.

  Chapter 6

  Carrie

  All weekend, I thought about Matthew and his daughter, whose name I still can’t even think without wondering who the hell named the poor child. My weird thoughts kind of pissed me off. Not just that I couldn’t get over seeing Matthew as something other than the cover model who sleeps with readers at events, but that I couldn’t stop wondering why, of all the mythological characters you could name your kid after, you would choose the worst one ever. Well, her name isn’t Medusa so I guess it’s not the worst one ever.

  Even my weekly phone call with my mother didn’t distract me from the topic at hand. Finally, after too many minutes of responding to all the updates on family and friends with a half-hearted “Uh huh,” my mom called me out and told me to call her back when I could give her my undivided attention on something more important than my book boyfriends.

  Normally I’d say she has me pegged. I do spend too much time in my head thinking about my perfect version of a man. I admit, my ideals are pretty high and much to my mother’s dismay, it makes marrying me off to “a good man who has a good job damn near impossible.” Yes, she u
sed those exact words. And yes, that’s what her goal has been for me my entire life. Marriage and babies. Every little girl’s dream.

  Except mine, apparently. My dreams include a solid friend turned lover who understands my passion for animals and stories and maybe brings some humor into my life.

  Instead, I suddenly have Matthew showing up. Matthew, whose daughter has the strangest name ever. I bet it’s so unpopular it doesn’t even make it in the top one thousand most popular baby names for the last hundred years. Or, it’s so original by the time she’s in high school, four other classmates will have the same name.

  I have got to stop overthinking this. Maybe if I just say her name out loud a few times it’ll stop sounding so strange to me.

  “Calypso,” I say once. “Calypso.” This time with an emphasis on the “lip.” “Calypso.” And now a singsong voice. “Nope. Still weird.”

  Not that it matters. The likelihood that I’ll see either of them again is pretty low. Of course, I said that after the last author event we both ended up at, so my track record isn’t looking great.

  No time to think about that now, though. I’ve got some raccoons to pick up from our intake area.

  Late fall and early winter babies are unusual, but not unheard of. What makes it hard is not many people are spending time outdoors, so we don’t usually find them when they fall out of the nest until it’s too late. I’m curious what shape these guys are in and how much work they’re going to take. The rescue has a couple of really solid volunteers we call on, but the age difference between the little guys they’re already raising and the newbies might make it difficult.

  Pushing the door to the back open, I see my favorite doctor gently stroking a frightened kitten and talking softly to it. He looks up at me behind his thick rimmed glasses and smiles.

  “Bottom left.” He gestures with his head to the cage where my little ones are waiting for me.

  “Who’s that little guy?” I ask referring to the black and white furball he’s still petting as he places it on some blankets.

  “There’s a feral mama out near the new strip mall. Someone’s been trying to catch her babies for a while so we can get them off the street.” He shuts the cage door quietly and picks up a clipboard to make notes. “I think this might be the last one.”

  Doctor Richards retired from his practice a couple years ago after four decades on the job. From what he tells us, he was hoping to travel the world, seeing as much as possible. Then he went on one trip to Europe and decided he liked the idea of traveling more than actually doing it. So he sticks to reading books about his favorite places and working for the shelter in the mornings to stay busy. As an office, we never let him forget how grateful we are for him. It’s hard finding a vet who is willing to come in every day. It’s even harder to find one who will work within the constraints of a non-profit’s tiny budget.

  “That’s great. Did they catch the mama too?”

  “Yep. Spayed her last week and sent her back on her way.”

  “Good,” I say absentmindedly as I wash my hands to pick up my newest charges. Once an adult cat is feral, it’s almost impossible to acclimate them into a pet situation. It’s best to just make sure they can’t have any more litters and let them live their lives out in the world on their own terms.

  Not unlike these babies who will turn on me in a matter of months before making their new life in a random tree somewhere. Drying my hands and reaching into the cage, I search the blankets for a warm body.

  “There you are,” I say quietly when I find one. Pulling it to me, I begin my inspection. “Look at you, sweet one. You’ve got lots of fur. That’s so good.” It’s likely what helped him survive until he was found. When they’re brand new, there’s almost no way to keep them from freezing to death within minutes. “And you’re so noisy,” I coo, listening to his strong purr. It’s not the same kind you’d hear from a cat. It’s much louder and demanding. “Let me look at you. Oh, your eyes are still closed. You don’t appear to have any injuries. And you are a…” I flip him over carefully. “A boy! Yep. Definitely a boy. Just pooped on me and have no regrets about it, huh?” I fuss at him as I stroke his soft body. “At least I know you ate recently.”

  Feeling confident that he doesn’t need any specialized treatment, I put him back inside and pull out the second raccoon. Although this one is a bit smaller, she’s still the size of my palm. She has a few different markings but they look almost identical, which means they’re probably from the same litter. That means either the entire nest fell down and we need to monitor for potential internal injuries, or their mama never came home to feed them, and they went rooting around for food. My money is on the food search. I love raccoons but they have a bad habit of crossing the street in the middle of the night. Chances are, she’s squished on a road somewhere. Fingers crossed, it’s not on my drive home.

  “So I’ve got a boy and a girl,” I announce to no one in particular, although I have no doubt Doc is paying attention. “About four weeks old. They look great.” I begin gathering a small transportation cage so I can take them back to the wildlife center and get them settled in.

  Just as I turn, I see Doc picking up a dog I didn’t notice before and placing him on the examination table. Not such an unusual task, but what stops me in my tracks is the dirty, torn fabric carrot dangling from his collar.

  No way.

  I consider my options and what I should do. There’s no doubt in my mind this is the beagle I’ve been thinking about all weekend, and I know who he belongs to. The question is do I let Olaf go through processing and hope for the best? Do I alert Jamie that this one has an owner and I know who it is? Or do I just text Matthew myself?

  I’m ashamed to admit, I plugged his number into my phone last week when they were here. It was less about having his digits and more about not having to go back up front to find it later if the dog turned up.

  Which is exactly what’s happening here, and that means my planning ahead was spot on. Right? Right. It had nothing to do with the fact that Matthew was actually nice. And charming. And melted my heart with the way he talks to his daughter—

  Fine! It’s all those things. But it worked for everyone’s benefit, so I decide to take a picture and send it to Matthew myself. Because I’m a good person. Who may need a little medication to keep me focused.

  Whatever. Caffeine works on the brain the same way Ritalin does and is much tastier.

  Grabbing my phone from my back pocket, I decide to try and build a little excitement first. This is important news! The prodigal pet is about to return home.

  Biting my lip, I’m proud of myself for doing my best to make amends with Matthew in a fun and interesting way.

  Me: I have a surprise for you!

  I’m surprisingly nervous as I wait for those three little dots to populate into something I can read.

  M: Who is this?

  I should have expected that. We didn’t exactly exchange numbers. I’m just being a stalker. Let’s back up and start again.

  Me: Sorry. It’s Carrie.

  M: Oh hey

  Well that was disappointing. So much for witty banter and fun conversation. Forget it. I might as well just cut to the chase. I don’t even respond just attach the picture I took of Olaf and press send.

  M: Oh wow! You found him!!!!!

  “Hmm. Five exclamation points for the dog but no punctuation at all for me. Figures.”

  “What was that?” Doc asks as I shove my phone back into my pocket.

  “Nothing. I think I know that dog.”

  “Oh yeah?” Doc concentrates on listening to Olaf’s heart with his stethoscope. “It would make it a lot easier if we didn’t have to go through the whole rigmarole of tests with him. What did you say his name is?”

  “Olaf.” The dog’s head immediately whips over to look at me, floppy ears perked up at his name.

  “Based on his reaction, I’d say you’re right.” Flipping the stethoscope over his head and around
his shoulders, Doc strokes Olaf’s fur. “And the carrot. If you know his family, you might as well message them. The sooner he can go home, the happier he’ll be.”

  “Already did.” I pull the phone out again and sure enough, Matthew sent another text.

  M: We’ll be there as soon as school is over. And thank you!

  Settling my raccoons in the travel carrier and heading back down the hall, I do my best to stop thinking about Matthew, Olaf, and, and… “Calypso.”

  There. I said it without breaking out into a laugh. I mentally pat myself on the back and get back to work. One dog may be going home, but these racoons are still in limbo.

  Time to get them fed.

  •••

  “Hey!”

  I startle and throw my hand over my heart, trying to get it back under control.

  “Jeez, Jamie. I know you love our new phone system but do you have to keep doing that?”

  Her shrill laughter blares through the intercom. “I have little entertainment in my life these days now that Chris is on the nightshift. Making you pee your pants is my latest goal.”

  “It’s like Old Lady Ghesilin all over again,” I grumble and finish shaking the small container of squirrel milk I just mixed. Thank God the top was already sealed. I should find out when her husband ends this series of night shifts at the firehouse. He needs to take some of the heat off me and keep her entertained.

  “What? You know you have to talk louder over this thing.”

  “Nothing, honey!” I yell a little too loud on purpose. “Do you need something from me or just felt like calling an ambulance after giving me a heart attack.”

  “As much as I love a man in uniform, I actually need you to come to the front.”

  I crinkle my brow. Why would she need me at the front? “Did someone drop off at the wrong side again?”

  “Sort of.”

  What does that mean?

  “Just move your tush and come up here.” She clicks off without another word or the opportunity for me to ask more questions.