Hot For His Girl

by Rachel Blaufeld

  After my coffee, a short run, a shower, and a quick post on upcoming Martin Luther King Jr. Day (not all posts are evil . . . this was about all the free museums to attend around the country on that day), I’m ready to conquer the world.

  With Gabby in tow, babbling about how her bowl will be ready for pickup in a week, I nearly pass out when she asks, “Are you going to marry Reid?”

  “What?” I stop on the sidewalk, directly in front of the coffee place where I started my day.

  “Lizzie says her mom said if you were going to bring Reid to Christmas, you’re going to get married.”

  I begin to tell her that’s exactly why I didn’t want to bring him, and change course midway through. “No one can really say whether someone else is going to get married or not. It’s fun to fantasize about it, but no, I’m not. We just met, and that’s not how two people decide to get married. It takes time to make a smart decision about spending your life with someone.”

  “What about my dad?” she asks as I’m crouched on the sidewalk in front of her, already emotionally spent.

  “What about him?”

  “You’re not spending your life with him, and I want a dad.”

  “Well, that’s just the thing. I don’t think your dad and I spent the adequate amount of time deciding things. That’s why I’m not rushing again. I’m sure it doesn’t make sense to you now, but one day it will. We hopped into things too quickly.”

  “Like me?”

  Why today?

  “Not you. We spent time thinking about you. I know it doesn’t make sense, but some adults aren’t ready for kids. They’re a lot of work. I was ready, and I couldn’t wait to have you.”

  There were only so many white lies I could tell Gabby. Last March, I leveled with her. I told her that I wanted her, and her dad was still making his mark on the world. Back when I told her this, I had no idea we would revisit it now.

  “I get it,” she says. “And I never met my dad, so I don’t care. But I like Reid. I pick him.”

  I laugh a little as I stand up and take her hand as we begin walking again. “It’s not Target. We can’t just get a dad for you.”

  “Mom, I know,” she says, drawing out the last word like only little kids can.

  For the moment, the topic is dropped, and we get in the car and zoom off to the movie theater. We’re meeting Reid there to see a cartoon about dogs who act like humans when their owners leave. I’m sure he’s thrilled. Not.

  The movie is pretty funny, and I hear Reid laugh a few times, my insides turning to mush. After the first few handfuls of popcorn, I decide against eating any more since my stomach is churning. Gabby’s sitting between us, and to the outside world, we look like a cute starter family.

  Another not.

  I resist the urge to check Twitter and my blog’s comments, another challenge when I’m with Reid. It’s part of why I need to tell him, but my tongue gets tied twelve times over when I think about it.

  After the credits roll, Reid asks, “Want to come over for pizza?”

  “Are you making it on the grill?” Gabby looks at him, bright eyed and bushy tailed.

  “Nope. I did a grooming post earlier. I’m going whole hog and calling for delivery, whatever toppings your mom wants.”

  “What’s grooming?”

  “Beauty for men,” I tell Gabby. “You sure about pizza?” I ask Reid, second-guessing him, or perhaps my plans.

  “You know it,” he says.

  He takes my hand, and I watch Gabby take it all in with the fascination of a fatherless girl who wants a dad. So I give his hand a pump and let go.

  Reid walks us to our car and says, “See you in a few.”

  On the drive, Gabby talks nonstop about the movie and how she thinks Reese’s misbehaves when we’re not home, and I think, She’d better not.

  As soon as we get to Reid’s house, he takes our coats and offers us drinks. I go for a wine—one glass maximum when I’m with Gabby—and she asks for a soda.

  Settling into his couch, he flicks on a gas fireplace and asks about pizza toppings.

  Gabby singsongs, “Pepperoni.”

  I say, “Plain or veggie, and Gabby will eat whatever we have,” giving my grabby-hands kid a glare.

  Reid orders one of each—three pizzas for three people, one of which is half our size. I decide there’s no arguing with him, and mentally plan to help wrap the leftovers.

  It’s easy hanging out, the fire roaring, our feet in socks. It’s too cozy. I can’t bring myself to consider telling the truth right in this moment.

  And then the worst possible thing happens. Lizzie’s mom calls and asks, “Does Gabby want to come for a last-minute sleepover?”

  Gabby dances and parades around, saying, “Please!”

  Of course, I agree, and we gobble up the newly arrived pizza. Gabby and I both let out belly laughs over Reid donning a new apron that reads CHEAT DAY.

  “What does that mean?” Gabby asks, running her finger across the words.

  I’d like to do that—of course, not innocently like she does it. To her, I say, “It’s a joke. People who live on diets, you know what I mean?”

  Gabby nods. “Yeah, Lizzie’s mom is always on a diet. She drinks Diet Coke all day long.”

  “Well, on a cheat day, she’d drink regular Coke. On my cheat day, I don’t cook. I order pizza or Chinese.”

  Gabby giggles and pulls a piece of pepperoni off her slice, shoving it in her mouth, cheese dribbling down her chin.

  Finally, Reid drives us home so we can grab a bag for Gabby and feed Reese’s, then we leave my car and drive her to Lizzie’s in Reid’s Jeep. The rumor mill will be buzzing later, and my nerves are turning my stomach inside out. Gabby wants a dad, I need to tell Reid the truth, and all I can think about is I’m having a sleepover too!

  Reid waits for me while I deposit Gabby at the door, and then we drive away in the night. It’s a cold night in January, yet the car is humid with want and need.

  When we get back to Reid’s place, he replenishes our drinks since I’m not going home until morning. He scurries around, turning on the fire and dimming the lights. Music comes on in the background, and I take a moment to take in all that’s Reid’s house. It’s an expensive and well-maintained bachelor pad.

  “Have you brought a lot of women back here?” I can’t stop the words as they tumble out of my mouth.

  “Jealous?” He eyes me. He’s taken off his flannel shirt and is down to a black T-shirt and jeans, bare feet.

  I shake my head.

  “Yeah, you are. Well, allow me to let you in on a little secret. I’m a stats geek. At work, we’re most definitely not the cool kids. Those are the guys who teach foreign policy, who smoke cigars and drink brandy while wearing jeans, oxfords, and Ferragamos.”

  “Wow, that’s fairly specific.” I raise both eyebrows.

  “Well, a few years back, this guy, Spencer, did a number on me.”

  “Did he now?”

  “It’s a story for another time.”

  “I think it’s a story for now.” I tuck my feet a little further underneath me. “After all, you know my sordid past.”

  Reid sips his drink and eyes me over the rim. He seems more human, less perfect, and I find myself liking it. Even if I know it’s about another woman, and I’m insanely jealous at the thought, I need this. I’m not the only one with a past full of mistakes and heartache.

  “I was dating a woman named Sally,” he says. “She was in the psychology department. Wanted to spend her life working with kids. Very sweet, but sexy.”

  I laugh.

  “Hey, it’s part of the story. Anyway, Chris Carmichael, the ass, aka the head of the economics department, tells me there’s no way I can keep dating her. She was too hot, too good, too everything for me. And, well, he was right. Spencer Faraday swept her out from under me, took her on some magical trip to Dubai, and the rest is history.”

  My heart splits in two. Half is filled with jealousy, the hal
f fueled with animosity aimed at this Spencer prick.

  My hand does what it wants and takes his, and I say, “Lucky for me. And lucky for you, I have no desire to head to Dubai.”

  “I’ll tell you what, I’m better now because I also run this blog. I happen to love it, even though it’s time consuming and kind of weird. I’ve been known to grill shirtless, ya know?”

  “You know it,” I tell him, even though I can tell he’s being partly sarcastic and joking.

  “It’s not as sexy as it’s cracked up to be. It’s a bit odd, but it’s me. I like that you’re busy with work and your daughter. You’re not demanding, and you seem to get my eccentricities. So, that’s a long answer to your question. No, I don’t have a lot of women here.”

  His fingers entwine with mine. It’s sensual and comforting at the same time.

  “Am I currently the only one?” I ask, fishing further.

  “Yes, Andonia. The only one.”

  He sinks to his knees in front of me and runs his hands up my thighs, snatching my leggings and pulling them down. I left my boots at the door, so within seconds, I’m bare from the waist down.

  “My favorite meal,” Reid says as he lowers his head and proceeds to eat me right there.

  I kind of like Reid’s house.

  A lot.

  Morning arrives too soon. I’m naked in Reid’s bed, and he’s not sleeping next to me.

  Five seconds later, he appears with a mug of coffee and says my phone has been dinging.

  I check and find Gabby is ready for a pickup since Lizzie has church and Sunday school. We hustle to get dressed, and Reid takes me to get my car.

  “A walk-of-shame morning pickup is the last thing we need to do,” I tell him, and he laughs. But he doesn’t agree.

  Tell Day has officially been postponed.

  “We’ll do the same thing next month when we’re off for President’s Day,” I tell Greg.

  “Sounds good. I can reserve a small classroom for both sessions.”

  “Great. I’m going to be away the Friday before President’s Day, so you’ll have to cover class. Do you mind making a note of that now?”

  “Of course not.” He pulls out his iPhone and taps away at the screen.

  It’s the Friday after Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and I’m having my weekly roundup with Greg. He held a review session on Tuesday for students who wanted it since we missed class on Monday when school was out. I took the day to evaluate my graduate students’ work and prepare a few posts for the blog—post-skiing outdoor feast, and the best beard oils for chapped skin. I’d hoped to spend some time with Andi, but Gabby didn’t have school. Andi mentioned something about “mom guilt,” feeling like she had to spend the day with her daughter.

  “Big weekend plans?” Greg asks, jolting me out of my thoughts.

  “Not really. Andi has to take Gabby to two birthday parties on Saturday. I’m hoping to catch a movie with her on Sunday if her neighbor will babysit. I’m going to ask.”

  “Nice,” he says.

  I like Greg. He’s a good dude, and doesn’t seem to be interested in the female students like Tim.

  “You?” I feel obliged to ask.

  “My sister needs me to babysit. She’s divorced, a single mom too.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. How old is she?”

  “Twenty-three. Stupid shotgun wedding after high school. Now he’s a ski instructor in Colorado, and she works two jobs and has full custody of their five-year-old, Luke.”

  “I’m sure she appreciates you. No doubt.”

  He nods. “Her mom guilt is at an all-time high, so yeah.”

  “Huh? What is that? Mom guilt.” I lean back in my chair and wait for him to answer. Poor guy didn’t know he signed up to be my relationship counselor when he took the TA position.

  “Why?” He runs a hand through his hair and smiles. “You never heard of it?”

  “Not really, but Andi mentioned it.”

  “It means they feel guilty for doing too much—work, house shit, whatever—and don’t have enough quality time with their kids. It’s not really real. It’s some bullshit they make up with their anxiety and feelings. Women.”

  “Hmm, I guess I have a lot to learn.”

  “Just know this . . . nothing trumps mom guilt.”

  “I think I know that. For sure.”

  Then Greg says he’ll see me on Monday, and that’s it. I’m stuck in my office with my feelings and boyfriend guilt.

  No wonder Andi has been standoffish all week. I acted like a spoiled brat when she said she couldn’t do lunch on Monday. I’d wanted to take her to a cute place in the Strip District—an Italian bistro with homemade wine and pizza—and when she said she was going to be with Gabby, I pouted. Not in front of her, but sending her one of those pouty emojis and a text saying, “Pretty please?”

  It was a bad call, and obviously put me in the dog house this week.

  I lean forward to grab my phone and hit the CALL button next to Andi’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “You already erased my contact?”

  “What?”

  “It’s Reid. You said hello like you didn’t know who it was.”

  Jeez, fuck. I’m up in my feelings like a boy dumped on the playground.

  “Oh, ha. No, I’m driving, and the contact didn’t come up.”

  “Oh, got ya. What are you up to?”

  “Picking up Gabbs. She went to a new friend’s after school. Lisa Michelle.”

  “Nice. Listen, I owe you an apology. I didn’t quite get what you meant when you mentioned mom guilt earlier in the week, and I pushed for you to see me. I don’t want to ever interfere in your time with Gabby.”

  Andi sniffs once, twice. “Thanks, it’s hard. I know you probably don’t want to be bored with the details, but Gabby sees her friends doing all this fun stuff. Manicures, movies, skiing, sledding with their families. I have to be it all for her, and then I need to work. She needed a day with me.”

  “I understand now.”

  “Okay, I’m glad.” That’s all she gives me, a tiny bit of flack, and it’s over.

  “Can I see you this weekend, around your schedule?” I decide not to be specific, let her know I’ll work around her.

  “Sure. Like I said, I have birthday-party duty on Saturday. What about Sunday?”

  Score one for Reid! I’m getting a hang of this.

  “Great. Happy to have Gabby come along.” She’s part of the package. I know this.

  “No, Leona’s been begging her to come do some scrapbooking project.”

  “Perfect. Brunch with mimosas?”

  “Yes, ten?”

  “Yep, I’ll grab you then.”

  “Good. Thanks, Reid, for being you.”

  “No, thank you for being you.”

  We hang up, and I begin to think I overreacted. Maybe Andi was legitimately busy, and not giving me the cold shoulder. Like Andrea, she said she was too busy to connect.

  Perhaps it’s a woman thing? When they say they’re busy, they really are busy?

  Men tend to say they’re busy as an excuse. Not me, but in general. Sue me, I’ve done it a few times.

  Smacking my hand into the desk, I jar myself out of my pussified thoughts and decide to go home and take a run before cracking open a beer, grilling a few New York strips, and watching ESPN. I need a healthy dose of red meat and testosterone.

  I crawl into bed on Friday night and pop open my laptop. It’s been a killer week.

  I set up all the details for the Universal trip. We’re leaving the Thursday before President’s Day and plan to stay all weekend through Monday. The posts will run the first week in March, and then again in July. This is new territory for me, but something I’ve wanted for a long time. Unfortunately, I’m not doing it under the circumstances I’d hoped for—as a big-time mom blogger. But I can’t complain.

  This week has also been killer with the comments. Several fires had to be extinguished among com
menters. A debate broke out regarding the political affiliations of two popular bloggers, and I don’t allow politics on my site.

  As I’m starting to doze, my eyes catch on the last email from Reid, and I feel guilt times a million. Remorse is putting it nicely. I’m fooling him as his girlfriend. I’m tricking him as Andrea, letting him down as someone he’s come to trust as his mentor.

  Me, a mentor. That’s ridiculous in and of itself.

  I smack the laptop closed, set it on my nightstand, and slip between the sheets.

  Happy weekend, readers.

  How goes it?

  Looks like it’s going pretty well for these lovebirds. Silly Socks and Momma Loves Me renewed their vows this weekend.

  Silly found his place blogging about men’s socks and shoes, eventually branching out to the toddler versions when his wife spit out a kid. It was only natural; she’d grown her own blog then. Of course, she became the online authority on family travel.

  I gotta give it to these two—true-blue business people and bloggers. Each of them writes a well-written blog, and their photography is splendid.

  Call the paramedics; I’m going soft. For real, I have to compliment Socksy and Momma. They’re doing a stand-up job. I may even say I admire them.

  Anyway, the pair renewed their vows this weekend at the Bellagio in a beautiful ceremony held in the onsite wedding chapel. White roses lined the aisle, and a canopy of lilies surrounded them and the priest. The service was followed by a stunning dinner on the patio of Olives, the fountain spread in front of them.

  Of course, Socksy Jr. was there in Dior for Kids loafers. Oh, did I mention, the Bellagio picked up the whole tab?

  Do I smell something fishy? Maybe Momma is switching from family travel to couples’ travel? Could be. In fact, Vegas isn’t taking a bet on it, it’s so sure.

  Watch for it.

  How do I know? Troll the message boards, and you’ll see she’s been asking around for couples’ opportunities. Sandals, the nudist/sex place, Atlantis.

  You heard it here first.

  Affectionately yours,

  The UnAffectionate Blogger

  Despite Andrea blowing me off, I continue reading her blog. It feels intimate since I know her name. How does she do it? Where does she get her information? She must spend twenty hours a day online. I guess that’s why she can’t help me.