by Penny Reid
I didn’t hear him pull into traffic, but I didn’t look back to check. I’d already spent too much time looking backward.
CHAPTER 3
Concentrations of Solutions
Sam liked to go ’80s dancing on Thursday nights with several of her tennis pals. I’d never gone with her because I had no level of confidence in my non-ballroom dancing skills. But part of my theoretical state included opening myself up to new experiences, but not being so open-minded that my brain fell out.
Therefore, on Thursday night when Sam asked me if I wanted to go ’80s dancing, I said yes.
I discovered that club dancing was basically just moving around however the heck I wanted; furthermore, I discovered it was a lot of fun. Sure, weird guys would sometimes sidle up to our cluster and try to cop a feel or insinuate themselves in the circle, especially since girls outnumbered the guys in our group. I quickly learned how to avoid stranger danger behavior by latching on to one of the three male tennis players who tagged along until the uninvited dude moved on.
This worked perfectly until the end of the night when Landon, one of the three tennis guys, asked for my number. I panicked and gave it to him as Sam watched on with an amused smirk.
As soon as we were back in our apartment, Sam started sniggering.
“What?”
“You’re a good dancer,” she said, eyeballing me.
“Thanks…?”
“What did you think of Kara?”
I had to really, really concentrate to remember which of the girls she was referencing. “Was Kara the one with pink hair?”
“No, Kara was the one with the Dungeons and Dragons mini dress.”
“Oh! Kara, yes. I liked her.”
“Well, she’s looking for a place to stay next semester. How do you feel about another roommate?”
“Would we move?”
“Yeah, but I think there’s a three-bedroom becoming available in our building sometime in February.”
I scrunched my face, wrinkling my nose. “Can I think about it? You know how particular I am. Can I meet her a few more times? Hang out? See what she thinks of the chore chart and angry acoustic guitar music?”
“Sure. That makes sense. I’ll set something up after New Year’s.” Sam began eyeballing me again. “Speaking of you being particular—sooooo Landon, huh?”
I gave her a pained look. “I didn’t know how to say no. He’s the first guy in my twenty years on this planet who has ever asked for my number.”
“Technically he’s not the first.”
I grumbled, but said nothing.
“You didn’t have a problem saying no to Martin last year in chemistry lab when he asked.”
“But I thought Martin was a jerk. It’s easy to say no to a jerk. Plus he never helped with tabulations so I felt no guilt. Landon seems like a nice guy. It’s hard to say no when a nice guy asks so nicely, and he spent most of the night helping me keep creepers at bay.”
“So you gave Landon your number because he was helpful and nice?”
“I don’t know…maybe? I feel like I should reward his nice behavior.” I hung my jacket up in the hall closet, noting I had two jackets on the rack and the rest were Sam’s.
Sam shook her head, walking past me to the kitchen and calling over her shoulder, “When he calls don’t go out with him. He’s actually a douche canoe. And he’s a big baby on the court.”
“Then why did you invite him?” I followed her, abruptly in the mood for Cheesy Poofs dipped in Nutella.
“Because he’s tall and menacing looking. His face reminds me of the eagle news reporter from the Muppets.”
“He does have thick eyebrows, I should give him the name of the lady who waxes mine.” I crossed to the cabinet and searched for the ingredients for my junk food fix. I was still down seventeen pounds from last year. I’d gained some back over the summer, but running around at the coffee shop and playing gigs at night kept me busy and cut into my cookie time.
“They’re like caterpillars sitting on his face, I bet they’re fuzzy…but forget Landon for a minute. What I want to know is, does this mean you’re finally over Martin?”
I lamented the contents of the cabinet pitifully, partially because there was no Nutella and partially because I hadn’t told Sam about my run-in with Martin over the previous weekend.
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s no Nutella, and I’m in the mood for Cheesy Poofs dipped in Nutella—”
“That’s disgusting.”
“—and I saw Martin last Saturday.”
“Whoa! Wait, what?” She spun on me, her mouth open, her eyes wide.
“There’s no Nutella—”
“Don’t be clowning me. You know I want to hear about Martin, not your Nutella woes. You saw him? Where? When? How come you didn’t tell me?”
I grabbed the Cheesy Poofs from the cabinet and turned to face her, feeling weary and wary of the subject already. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I guess I needed to…no, that’s not right. I think I didn’t tell you because we kind of gave each other closure and I needed a few days to process it.”
Her eyes abruptly narrowed. “He gave you ‘closure’?”
“Yeah. At least I think he was trying to. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Seeing him was a total fluke. He was at a gig we were playing in New York. We talked a little, he drove me to the train station, then we said goodbye.”
Actually, I said goodbye. He didn’t say anything. But I’d assumed his goodbye was implied. As such, I felt comfortable with my version of the story.
Sam looked me up and down, her face twisted in a way that betrayed her disbelief and/or confusion with my story. At length she said, “Huh…that’s weird.”
“Why is that weird? Honestly it was kind of nice. We were both adulting like adult adults who behaved like adults.”
“It’s weird because of that one interview he gave in the fitness magazine over the summer. I think it was in Men’s Health. Did you ever read that, by the way?”
I shook my head, taking a bite of a poof and lamenting the obnoxiously crunchy sound it made; I spoke around my chewing, orange cheesy food dust puffing from my mouth like a cloud. “No. Never read it.”
“Hmm…”
I ate another poof as she studied me. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
I was just about to stuff my face with another when she said, “It’s about you, you know.”
“I… What?” I did not eat the poof. Instead I held it in front of my mouth as I frowned at my best friend.
“The interview, it’s about you. Well, not the whole thing. Just…half of it.”
I choked on nothing and could feel my eyes bug out of my head. “Wait, what? What? Why? What?”
“If you’re feeling over him then it might not be a good idea to read it.”
I stared at her, my mouth opening and closing as I struggled for words. Finally I settled on, “What did he say?”
“Are you going to read it?”
“Should I?”
“Are you over him?”
Was I?
Not knowing how to answer, I ate the suspended cheese-rice-puffed-food. This time the crunch felt satisfying instead of obnoxious, like an exclamation mark.
“Don’t read it,” she said suddenly.
“Maybe I want to.”
“Then read it.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t.”
She grinned. “Then don’t.”
***
I didn’t read Martin’s interview. At least, I hadn’t read it as of Saturday night.
Friday and Saturday were busy; we played four gigs. Two afternoon holiday parties in Boston, one evening wedding in Yonkers, and one crazy late night Bat Mitzvah on Saturday in New Haven.
As well, I had a very odd conversation with Abram after the third set at the Yonkers wedding; it started with him saying, “What you need is a rebound guy.”
I glanced over my shoulder, found him standing just to my right, facing me,
his mouth curved in its perma-smirk.
“You mean for basketball?”
His smirk became a grin. “No. Not for basketball. For getting over that stockbroker douchebag.”
I scrunched my face at Abram and sipped my Coke. “What are you talking about?”
He shifted a half step forward, lowering his voice. “A warm body, someone who’s good at kissing and fucking. You need a rebound lay.”
“Oooohhhh…” His meaning finally sank in, which only made me nervously gulp my Coke. My eyes grew wide as I tried to look everywhere but at him and my brain attempted to figure out how to extract myself from this conversation. His comment sounded a lot like, Hey, I’d like to have sex with you to help you get over your boyfriend. Use me.
“I’m not offering,” he clarified, correctly guessing that my abrupt bout of anxiety had everything to do with my assumption he wanted to be my rebound guy. I relaxed a bit, but then he added, “Though I wouldn’t mind being the guy after the rebound guy.”
I choked on my Coke.
He laughed, a deep, baritone laugh that sounded more sinister than merry, and he patted my back. “Hey, are you okay?”
I nodded, sucking in air through my nose, then coughing again.
“Did I surprise you?” His dark eyes were warm and still held his earlier laughter.
I continued nodding as his hand stopped patting my back and switched to stroking it instead. I shivered, because his hot palm and capable fingers against the thin material of my tuxedo shirt felt good and was sending little tingles along my spine; as well he was standing in my personal space, his magnetic maleness making me a bit dizzy.
I stepped away and caught his arm, halting his movements.
“So, I’m…that is to say, I’m—”
“You’re not over the douchebag,” he supplied, which wasn’t what I was going to say; nevertheless it was the truth.
“No. I guess I’m not.” My voice was raspy from my coughing fit.
“Then take my advice and get laid. Let someone else make you feel good. Hell, I bet Fitzy would cream himself at the thought.”
I winced. “I don’t like the idea of using people.” Plus I didn’t like the idea of having sex with someone when I wasn’t in love, but if I’d said that to Abram, I assumed he would make fun of me.
“You need to. Sure, be upfront about the arrangement. Let him—whoever him is—know that it’s a no-strings kind of thing. But do yourself a favor, and find a rebound guy. Otherwise it’ll be years before you get over your ex.”
I studied Abram for a long moment, releasing his arm and leaning away, wanting to really see him. He wasn’t teasing; in fact, he appeared to be speaking from experience.
“How many rebound girls have you been with, Abram?”
His smirk was back, but it was somehow less sharp. “I’ve lost count.”
“And have they helped?”
“Yeah. I mean, they have helped. I’m not nearly as miserable and pathetic as I was before…” He trailed off, and his smirk waned, his eyes turning serious. “But I’m not going to rebound forever.”
“When will you stop?”
“When I see someone who’s worth hurting for again. Someone worth the risk.” He lifted his hand and tucked several strands of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my throat. “Or she finally sees me.”
***
By the time my alarm went off on Sunday morning for my shift at the Bluesy Bean, I was cursing Sam for telling me that Martin’s interview was about me, or half about me.
I was also cursing Abram for planting strange ideas in my head—about a rebound guy, about him as a potential post-rebound guy. I was all mixed up. I was attracted to Abram, but hadn’t allowed those feelings to deepen beyond passing interest. But what if I let myself actually get to know him? What if I liked him?
I was relieved to find my co-worker Chelsea already on the register when I arrived.
“You’re early,” she sang, giving me a bright smile.
“I thought I was late.”
“No. Ten minutes early. It’s been really quiet so far.” She pulled her long, thick, blue-tinted braid over her shoulder.
I fastened my apron and took stock of our milk supply. “If today is anything like last Sunday, we can expect a mad rush with all the Christmas shoppers.”
“That means Christmas carol requests. You’ll have to sing with me.” Chelsea gave me a wink and a smile.
I gave her a smile that likely looked more like a grimace. “Oh…yay.”
She laughed, then turned her attention to the front of the store where two early morning customers had just entered.
I kind of loved Chelsea…from a distance. I think everyone loved Chelsea from a distance. She was charming, incredibly talented, clever, and crazy fun. As well, she had one of the most beautiful soprano voices I’d ever heard. She was also thrice divorced at the age of twenty-eight. Given the Marilyn Monroe resemblance of both her face and body, men loved her. They loved her a whole lot.
But I suspected Chelsea loved the stage and the thrill of admiration. When she wasn’t singing for wages at the local community theater, she was singing for tips at the Bluesy Bean, flirting with her legion of admirers. I was grateful that she craved the spotlight; her willingness to be the center of attention allowed me to settle into a comfortable zone.
And speaking of zones, since starting at the coffee shop three weeks ago, I found it was easy to zone out while making lattes and cappuccinos. Cooking in general, and making coffee specifically, was a lot like chemistry lab. Thus, as I set to work, I was able to meditate on the carousel of pros and cons circling around my brain.
Pro - if I read Martin’s interview, then I could stop obsessing about whether or not I should read the interview.
Con - if I read Martin’s interview, I might start obsessing about the content of the interview.
And so the day proceeded in this way and all was well. More precisely, all was relatively normal until just after the mid-afternoon rush died down. I was cleaning up the mess associated with coffee grounds and drippings accumulating over time on a tile floor when I heard Chelsea say under her breath, “We’ve got a Chris Pine at twelve o’clock.”
Chelsea had a labeling system for men.
She told me she was looking for a Brad Pitt (older version) or a Chris Pine (younger version). Someone charismatic, beautiful, smart, wealthy, and dedicated to a cause other than himself. I asked her if she’d ever considered looking for a Neil deGrasse Tyson or a Francis Collins. Someone who wasn’t necessarily physically stunning, but whose brain and goodness more than made up for any external lack of overt attractiveness.
She’d snorted at me, rolled her eyes, and said, “If I have to have sex with the guy, I don’t want to have to do it in the dark all the time.”
It was an interesting perspective…one which I found disturbing. On one hand I understood why attraction was an essential element of chemistry between two people. But her inability or unwillingness to appreciate attractiveness beyond the skin and see the person as a whole made me feel a little sorry for her.
Presently, curious about her Chris Pine, I straightened from my task and tried to nonchalantly glance over the coffee makers. That’s when I spotted Martin walking into the café.
My eyes widened in surprise and I ducked back behind the espresso machine, shock and a strange panic keeping me motionless for several seconds while I had a silent argument with myself:
What in the name of the cosmos is he doing here?
Perhaps it’s a coincidence.
What am I supposed to do???
…just act normal.
What’s normal?
I briefly considered staying hidden for as long as possible, but then I realized it would be weirder to suddenly appear once he ordered his drink than to gradually straighten now.
Maybe I could pretend I was cleaning the floor…which is what I was doing just moments ago, before he walked in.
Or maybe I
could actually finish cleaning the floor.
This idea seemed to make the most sense, so that’s what I did.
Unfortunately, cleaning the floor only took me five more seconds. So when I straightened, I struggled to act normal. I didn’t know what to do or where to look and had abruptly forgotten how to breathe and stand with my arms at my sides. Yet even as a fierce blush lifted to my cheeks, I was determined to make the imminent encounter as benign as possible.
“Welcome to the Bluesy Bean. What can I get you?” I heard Chelsea say using her husky voice.
I decided I just needed to go through the motions of normalcy, do what I would normally do. So I picked up the towel I’d been using to mop the floor. I turned and deposited it in the bucket under the sink, then moved to wash my hands.
“I’ll have a large Americano.” Martin’s voice caused a shiver of awareness to race down my spine. I endeavored to ignore it.
“Room for cream?”
“No.”
I finished washing my hands and turned back to my machine, refilled the espresso grounds, and set the dial. In less than ten seconds I was going to have to reach over and grab his cup and I would be fine. I didn’t know why my heart and brain were freaking out so much.
“Really? How about sugar?” In my peripheral vision I saw Chelsea leaning on the counter. She often did this to take full advantage of her low-cut top.
“What? No. No sugar.”
“Oh. I was just curious how you take your coffee. I like mine sweet and creamy.”
There was a distinct pause, a thick silence difficult to ignore. It lengthened, grew, then suddenly felt untenable. So I glanced up and found Chelsea watching me, her eyes narrowed in confusion. Then I glanced at Martin. He was watching me, too.
His stare was pointed, like he’d been watching me for longer than a few seconds and was waiting for me to look at him.
All at once I felt caught.
“Oh… Hi, Martin.” My acting skills were pathetic, but I tried my best at genuine surprise. It might have helped that I was feeling a little out of breath.
