“That’s fine. We don’t have to talk.”
“Thanks. I’d say that it was good seeing you, but I don’t want to lie to you. Good luck with your meeting, okay?”
“Thanks. And I hope you get a better night’s sleep. She must be keeping you up.”
She. Why go there? Is she jealous? And why am I about to play along? ‘Cause I’m a petty asshole, that’s why.
“It’s not her,” I say, playing right into the small amount of insecurity she just showed me. “I just had to sleep on the couch. Fucked up my back and neck.”
“Oooh. What did you do to get the couch? Must have pissed her off.”
“Apparently I can do that without even trying.”
“I remember,” she says. “The line’s moving by the way.” The line starts to move. I guess the manager came up front and started cracking some barista heads when they saw the store has about forty angry and sleepy customers. I take a few steps forward and move our painful conversation about ten feet closer to a trenta caramel macchiato with six shots. “Whatever you did, just say you’re sorry. It helps. Even if you think you were right.”
“Thanks, I’ll give it a try.”
I order and take a step to the side to wait. It’s probably too much to hope that Maryanne is going to decide that she really doesn’t want coffee and leave so I don’t have to keep talking to her. Nope, here she comes. All I can hope is that they make my drink faster than they’ve been making them since I got here. We stand in silence for a few seconds. I think about asking her about her new book, but stop myself. I don’t want to know. I really don’t.
I hear the barista call out my name. It’s the sweetest sound I’ve heard in a long time. I grab my cup so fast that I forget to put on the sleeve. “Shit!” I put it down and shake my hand out.
“Here.” She hands me one of their cup sleeves. A small act of mercy.
“Thanks.”
“What are horrible ex girlfriends for?” Her joke falls on deaf ears. I wish I was far enough away from the feeling of what she did to me to be able to joke around, but I’m not. She smiles and then stops. “Listen, maybe I’ll text you sometime and we can get dinner and talk books or something?”
She’s so fucked up. Talk books? Dinner? She thinks that I want to talk about the very thing that came between us? You’ve got to be kidding me. Hearing how delusional she is reminds me that her leaving me was the best thing. It was painful—in some ways the memories still are, but if I’m being objective it was the best possible outcome for us.
I don’t want to be confrontational any more—I just want my coffee and to get the hell out of here, so I decide, despite myself, to just be fake and end this quickly—it’s the path of least resistance.
“Sure. You still have my number, right?”
“I do.”
“Great. Thanks for the sleeve. Have a good meeting.”
“You too.”
I walk out stressed. Of all the gin joints.
Life isn’t so smooth at the moment.
Cormac
That was a long day at the office, but I’ll take a month of long, unproductive days over running into Maryanne again, even once. She’s nuts if she thinks I’ll ever text her. I wish things like that didn’t cloud the entire day, but for me they did. We ended up seeing four authors, and each one felt flat to me. Most likely they weren’t flat and I’m just in a shit mood. That’s what Maryanne can do to someone. She’s like a dark cloud that can hover over your head, shitting poisonous rain down on you.
I stayed later to do a mountain of paperwork that’s been building up. I’m almost done with it when I get a text. Oh no. I’m hoping it’s not. . . her again. I rub my eyes, prepare for what I’m going to write if it is her, then open my screen. But it’s not Maryanne—it’s a different her—one I’m strangely excited to hear from after everything that happened last night.
Tori: Sorry for last night. I said some things I shouldn’t have. I didn’t mean to ruin our nice dinner. Can I make it up to you?
I stare at my phone like I stared at Maryanne at Starbucks before—only in a good way. This stare isn’t horror, it’s happy surprise. Since we’ve met, Tori hasn’t given me an inch. I write back right away because I know that was a hard text for her to send.
Cormac: I’m sorry too. How about we both stop doing that and just talk to one another? And what did you have in mind?
Tori: I’ll tell you when you get home.
That last texts feels very girlfriend-ish. I don’t hate it.
Cormac: Alright, just finishing up some paperwork. I should be home in less than two hours. Who knows with that traffic!
Tori: Okay.
I decide to go full boyfriend on her.
Cormac: You want me to pick up some Chinese on the way home?
Tori: Oh my God, you read my mind! I’d love some.
Cormac: See, I’m psychic like that. Text me your order and I’ll stop.
Tori: You’re the best. See you soon.
Wait, am I seeing things? Did she just end that last text with a heart emoji? Things are looking up!
The traffic wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be—small blessing to end the otherwise shitty day. I stop by this little hole in the wall Chinese place that got surprisingly good reviews on Yelp when I looked before. I got the wonton soup and lo mein, and I got Tori her chicken chow mein and fried rice. Now I’m off to bring it home and see what she has in store for me.
She might be a little right about the stereotypical male thing, because when she said ‘I’ll make it up to you’ my first thought was a blowjob. Now, my rational brain realizes that the odds of walking in to Cynthia’s home to a scantily clad Tori, on her knees, mouth open, holding a sign that says “I’m sorry, just keep walking forward” might be a bit of a stretch, but I can’t help but go there. I almost crashed twice thinking about it.
I walk in the front. No naked woman. No mouth. No promise of a blowjob. I just see a very neat looking house. She steps out, looking a mess. “Hey.”
“Hey. How are you? The place looks great.”
“Thanks, I cleaned it up for you—for us.”
She must have been hitting the liquor cabinet while I was at work because she looks like a housewife from the 1940’s—I’m surprised there isn’t a steak dinner and a glass of iced tea waiting for me. I have been keeping the place a little messy. At the office I’m buttoned up, but at home it’s a different story. Let’s just say I’m not the neatest of human beings. I know it’s been driving her nuts because she’s the opposite—and a part of me has let it go ‘cause I secretly like pissing her off, but now I feel bad that she spent however much time today cleaning up after me.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I meant to pick up those clothes and clean those dishes. You didn’t have to. . .”
“I wanted to. A little peace offering after last night,” she says. “Plus, I was sick of looking at the mess. That might have had something to do with it too.”
“Just maybe.”
“Just a little bit. How was your day?”
I almost blurt out what happened at Starbucks, but I pull myself back. She doesn’t need to hear about all that right now. She probably doesn’t need to hear about it ever. We’re not real, right? It’s not like we have some unspoken agreement when it comes to being completely honest and open about our pasts. “Long. It just felt really, really long. You know those days?”
“I know them well. That’s how it feels when you’re trying to get through the perfect edit on a vlog—when you’re stuck somewhere in the middle of it and you’re not sure where to go, and you just have to sit there, messing around with the right shots, lighting, and graphics until you have something that you’re proud of. Then you edit the crap out of it later to make sure you clean up the mess you left on the page.” She smiles, deep in thought, not even looking at me when she’s saying that.
“One day I might know what that feels like.”
“Oh, right,” she says. “Fictio
n or non-fiction?”
“Fiction. Don’t tell Cynthia or Elissa, but I prefer it to non-fiction. Books about real things remind me too much of college. Fiction takes me someplace else. It’s an escape.”
“I get that. Let’s sit down and eat. You can tell me about it.”
When we start talking about books I don’t even feel the bags of Chinese food weighing down on my fingers. It’s a little bit of a sore spot. No matter what I think of her book, part of me is jealous of her, and all the other authors we see, for even having finished books. It’s been a dream of mine for a very long time and I just can’t seem to pull the trigger.
The dining room table is already set—plates, napkins, all of it. She really became a house wife for the afternoon—but that’s not something I’d ever say out loud to her. We’d be fighting in no time, and I’ve had enough fighting for today.
We sit and eat for a little while, and all I want to know is if this is what she meant by making it up to me for last night. That’s when she tells me we’re taking a trip Wednesday.
“I was thinking we could hang out and then go on a date in the city.”
“I love that idea. I have a few things to do at work, but only in the morning. We can meet after—walk around or something. How does that sound?”
“Perfect. It’s sounds perfect.”
She’s so beautiful that sometimes I forget that we’re basically playing house. I feel bad because, at the end of the day, I still really don’t love the content that she’s trying to put out into the world. But when we’re together—at least over the last few days—I don’t feel like we’re playing, and I don’t think of her as that crazy feminist who writes that garbage. Maybe I do need to rethink her book. If Elissa and Cynthia liked it, maybe it’s me. The only difference is, of course, I’m a man, and I’m going to have a different perspective on the whole thing.
“I have an idea,” she tells me. “We we can flip the switch a little—how about while we’re in the city you tell me a little more about your book.”
I’m really surprised. “Yeah? You really want to hear about what I’m working on?”
“Yeah, of course,” she says. “Why not? I mean, if you were my real boyfriend you’d tell me all about a book you were writing, right?”
“I guess I would.”
“So, you can tell me. We have to make this as real as possible, don’t we?”
That’s when she stands up. I sat back down when she told me to, so I’m half expecting a slap from above as she stands right in front of me. But there’s no slap. She reaches down and puts both of her Chinese food smelling hands on my face as she leans in and kisses me. Her lips are soft and warm, and I feel my cock harden again—faster this time—the second I realize that she’s kissing me. It lasts only a few seconds, but it’s definitely not a peck, and the last thing it feels is obligatory. It feels like a place I want to move to—an island where I close my eyes and this happens all day.
She pulls away, slowly. “Thank you for agreeing to this whole thing.”
Then she starts collecting all the paper plates and dishes and puts everything in garbage bags.
“You’re welcome,” I mutter under my breath.
Kiss number one felt amazing. Kiss number two just felt fucking electric.
And here’s something I know for sure—one more of those is just not going to be enough!
Tori
Tuesday, July 18th
I need Shoshana.
I asked her to come over to Cynthia’s place after Cormac left for work. She’s going to sample my shitty attempt at home made coffee. I haven’t made my own cup in a long time, and apparently Cynthia is quite the enthusiast—she’s got like five different machines, all of which are kind of intimidating. I’m standing in their kitchen trying to decide if I need an advanced degree to use them.
There’s a regular one. A French press. A Nespresso Machine, a Keurig single serve, and something that looks like it cost about five thousand dollars in the William Sonoma catalog. I’m not touching that thing with a ten-foot pole. I guess I’ll go with the good old regular pot, and we’ll pray to the caffeine gods that I don’t screw things up.
Shosh texted me that she’s grabbing some breakfast pastries on her way. I hear a knock on the door and let her in. “Delivery,” she jokes.
“Tell me you got. . .”
“Cheese danish? Duh! Do you not understand that we’re psychically linked at this point in our relationship? What did you think I was going to bring, muffins or something basic?”
“No basic bitch muffins. And I love you.”
“You don’t,” she jokes. “You only use me to get cheese danish—that, and my video editing skills. It’s an unhealthy love, but it’s the best thing I have going right now so I’ll take it. Wait, I don’t smell the coffee you promised, what’s going on? Did you back out on your end of the deal?”
“What’s going on is that I just realized that I’m in my late twenties, I’m a hot shot on social media and —hopefully—a soon to be published author, but I can’t make a cup of fucking coffee.”
She breathes a deep and very fake sigh. “Aren’t you lucky your girl is here to save the day once again? I swear, between making you coffee and bringing you your favorite pastry on the same day—I’m expecting you to put out at the end of this breakfast.”
“I’d give it up to you anytime you wanted, Shosh, you know that.”
“Like you had to tell me.” We laugh. I love Shoshana. She makes life a better thing. “Now show me the equipment.” We walk into the kitchen and I show her all the machines. She opens her eyes as wide as I’ve ever seen her open them. “What in the hell is that thing?”
“I’m not sure. But I think whatever it is, Elon Musk invented it. It might be listening to us right now and mining our data, so don’t speak ill of it.”
“Yeah, we won’t be touching that very advanced piece of technology. Let’s kick it old school today. I’m gonna take this pot, fill it with water, dump it in the top of this.” She grabs the old-fashioned percolator and plugs it in. “Then I’m gonna put grinds. . . oh, wait, do we even have grinds?”
I look around the room. Nothing. I open up all the cabinets until I find an old Maxwell House can of ground coffee sitting in one right above the sink. “Jackpot.” I open the lid and smell. “This might not be the freshest thing in the world. God knows when she opened this.”
“I’m surprised that she even has this pot with that. . . thing, over there. But it’ll do. Most ground coffee is stale before you even open it, anyhow. Best way is to grind your own beans, and right before, using a spice grinder.”
“Look at you, my little coffee savant. You’re like Rain Man.”
“I know some stuff. I have my moments.”
“I hope you know how to make this dry brown dust into a cup of something that’ll wake me up.”
“We’ll see. Even I have my limits. I assume she has cream and sugar?”
“Assume nothing in this house.”
“Okay. Check the fridge while I try to work some magic over here.”
I open the fridge and look through some of the groceries that Cormac brought home the other day. I see a fresh, unopened carton of half and half. “Cream, check.” I look on the counter. “Sugar, double check. We’re good.”
She pushes the button and I hear all these cool sounds coming from the machine as black goodness starts to drip down from the top of it. “And the percolations have begun! Why does the lady who lives here have all that stuff in the fridge? Weren’t they going to be away for a while?”
“Yeah, they get back around when our thing ends. And Cormac got the half and half and all the other groceries.”
“He’s a domestic man, huh? That’s sexy. He might be a keeper after all.”
“You wouldn’t think that, right? He comes across like a total. . . man.”
“Here we go,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“No, no, I’m not going to say what you think.
What I was going to say was that he comes across like everything he’s not—he’s not really cocky or mean. He’s got some surprising layers to him.”
“Layers? Oh my God, Tor, you’re catching some feelings for mean old Mr. Publisher Man, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said that he’s a little more complex than I gave him credit for at first.”
“I’ll tell you a secret. Are you ready? Come in closer, I want to whisper it to you—whispers are always more important than when you say things in a regular voice. Are you ready?”
I lean in. “Yeah,” I say. “Lay the secret of life on me.”
“Okay,” she whispers. “I. Think. You. Really. Like. Him. A. Lot.”
I hear the last drips of coffee filling the pot. “The coffee’s done, grab the accoutrement, will ya? And if I liked him like that I’d tell you.”
“It’s too early for French words—and you do like him like that, you’re just too stubborn to let yourself admit it. I know you too well. I need to investigate a little further though. I’m going to need to ask you a question or two.”
“Should I take a deep breath?” I ask.
“You should always take a deep breath when I ask you if I can ask you something. Question one—do you have feelings for him?”
“I told you no.”
“Yeah, but you were obviously lying. Just like you’re lying now.”
“Why do you think I’m lying?”
“Because I know you, and when you know someone you should be able to tell when they’re lying—especially if that person doesn’t lie very often.”
“Are you calling me a bad liar?” I ask.
“I am,” she says. “And trust me that’s a good thing. So, yes to my first question?”
“But I. . .”
“Second question—have you. . . you know? Done the deed?”
“God, Shoshana, no. We just kissed twice.”
“Holy shit monster—did you say twice! You mean there was another one after the drunk one, and you didn’t tell me?”
The Three Kiss CLause Page 15
