Hot For His Girl

by Rachel Blaufeld

  My phone dings, and I quickly forget about Andrea. I have a date with Andi today.

  ANDI: Running ten minutes late. Leona took Gabby early, and I went for a run.

  I’m not upset. Actually, I’m strangely happy Andi had a chance to run and enjoy herself.

  My heart ached for her when she spoke about those bloggers being mean to her. I get it. In fact, I’m taking some time off next semester to work on the blog and figure out what I want to do with it. The administration continues pushing me on it, and I don’t feel like explaining.

  My phone dings again. This time it’s a text from my sister.

  JULIE: Hey, loser. We’re coming to the mainland in July. I know it’s a long way off, but save us some time.

  REID: Duh, I’ll set aside five minutes.

  She sends me an emoji with its tongue sticking out, but I don’t respond. It would only set off an emoji war, and it’s time to grab Andi. No time for silliness right now.

  I pull on my coat and head to my Jeep, thinking I should grab some flowers. I make a right out of my street instead of a left and pull over next to the guy in front of the bank.

  Ray peddles bundles of flowers on the weekend. I’ve met him a few times when I’ve been down in the Strip District (aka the wholesale food district). He’s a single dad of twins. During the week, he works for the cable company, and Friday afternoon through Sunday morning, he does the flower thing.

  Ray shakes my hand. “Heya, Reid. Big date, or bribing your secretary to work on Sunday?”

  “Ha, very funny. And I think it’s appropriate to say administrative assistant nowadays.”

  “Tomato, tomahto. What can I get ya?”

  “I’ll take one of those colorful bushels.” I point to the back buckets.

  “Deep pockets, I see.”

  “Oh, you know me. By the way, how’re your kids?”

  “You remembered?”

  “Hell yeah, you got twins.”

  “They’re good. My sister watches them for me on the weekends, and they’re a help to her with her toddler.”

  My heart thumps when I think about Andi, who only has Leona, and yet she makes it work.

  Deciding I don’t want to waste a second of Andi’s precious free time, I pay and go straight to her house without stopping at Go. I do make a mental note to stop at Ray’s corner more often.

  “Hey,” she says when she opens the door. “Are those for me?”

  “They are.”

  She looks delicious in jeans and a navy turtleneck sweater, brown knee-high boots. I swallow, telling myself we’re going out, when all I want is to stay in and get naked.

  “Let me put these in water,” Andi calls from the kitchen, and I follow her.

  “No prob. I made a reservation at a new place in Shadyside. Supposedly, it’s good. I heard at work from one of the women. I’m guessing she knows.”

  “Great. I’d be happy if you cooked, but you do that all the time.”

  “Not enough for you,” I say, and I mean it. If I could, I’d cook for Andi every day. That’s the thing about the blog I don’t like. I make all this food, and I don’t have anyone to share it with. In the beginning, some of my buddies from the department would come over to eat. But they made other lives, and I still have the blog.

  “Aw, that’s sweet, but let’s go have some fun.” She smiles at me, and I think she means it. All my worries about her brushing me off fade away.

  On the way down to the car, we’re holding hands and hear a loud knocking. Leona and Gabby are both in the window, waving.

  “Those two, they want in on everything,” I joke.

  “Sorry, they’re part of the package, especially Gabby.” Andi stops and looks at me, judging me as she should.

  “I love them for it,” I say, thinking, Using the L-word was probably overkill. But when Andi kisses me on the lips right there in front of the window, I think, Maybe not.

  We sit across from each other at the brunch place, Muddy Rivers, and talk endlessly. We share oysters, and as we’re having mimosas, I break the big news.

  “I’m going to Disney over President’s Day, and I wish you could come. Maybe you would?” I’m taking a risk with asking, but obviously, I’m not risk averse.

  Andi makes a strange face, like it’s a horrific idea, and I jump in before she can answer, trying to save myself.

  “Shit, I know, it’s not time for that yet. I was thinking of Gabby. She’d love it. Here’s an idea . . . If I do a great job, they might ask me back. Something to look forward to.”

  Andi nods, her mind seemingly far off, probably not believing I suggested a future. Finally, she says, “It would be fun,” and smiles. Afterward, she seems a bit fixated on my travel arrangements, asking a bunch of questions on the logistics. I don’t know what to make of it, and chalk it up to nerves on her part.

  “I’m not going until Friday, midday. I’m presenting on two social-media panels on Sunday and Monday, and then there’s a bunch of learning sessions through end of business Tuesday. Since I don’t have a family to drag around the parks, I think I’ll go to the main park on Saturday and that’s it.”

  “Cool, I’m sure you’ll love it. One day, I’ll take Gabby,” she says to my mouthful of logistics, and then she lets it go.

  I get the feeling she wants to move on from the conversation. I don’t know if it’s because she can’t pay for the trip herself, or if she secretly wishes she was coming with me. I don’t know.

  Changing the subject, I tell her about Greg.

  “I think it’s pretty cool,” she says. “Obviously, he’s extremely responsible student, going to school full-time, working as a TA, and helping with his nephew.” She asks where he’s in school, and of course, I have no idea.

  “He’s a big improvement over Tim, my last hound-dog TA. Guy used it as a reason to sleep with the students. He was a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen.”

  “Hound dog.” She parrots me, laughing. “What are you, back in the 1950s?”

  “Very funny. Should I say cocksman? Or manwhore?”

  This has her really giggling. Small crinkles spread from her eyes, and it’s the kind of beauty a guy can get used to.

  “Manwhore . . . it’s so funny hearing you say that,” she whispers.

  “Why? Because I’m a numbers guy?”

  “Uh, no. And you’re not all numbers. You’re not too shabby in your apron, biceps bulging.”

  “That doesn’t sound good at all, apron and biceps bulging.” I signal for another round of mimosas and mouth thank you to the server.

  “Not as terrible as manwhore out of your mouth. It’s too Sex and the City, or I don’t know.” She’s tearing up from laughter, and I want to keep it going.

  “How about gigolo?”

  “Oh. My. Moving on, changing subject, apron man . . .”

  “Whatever the lady desires.” I wink, and she’s in another fit of laughter.

  “Saved by the mimosa,” I say when the server swings by. Andi and I clink glasses and each take a sip, toasting to having fun, I guess.

  “I’m going to see Delia next weekend with Gabby. James is going to London for ten days, and I think she could use the company and the break,” Andi explains over a basket of muffins.

  We’re not rushing our meal. The time we spend together feels magical, fragile, as if it could break at any minute. One barfing kid, and it could all be over. Don’t I know it.

  We continue ordering food, drinking and talking.

  Thinking back to her sister, I wonder who keeps Andi company or gives her a break. Me?

  “What if it snows?” I’m struck with some strange mix of anxiety and protectiveness at the idea of her driving to Ohio in the winter. Ohio. Two hours away.

  “I don’t think it will. Either way, we’ll be fine. The drive is so flat.”

  I feel unnecessarily anxious. They’re precious cargo.

  “Oy, I see your mind churning,” Andi says, snapping me out of it. “I’ll be fine. Swe
ar.”

  “You said oy.” I laugh.

  “Now you know I’m Jewish, for real.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  With one little joke, I’m back at ease, all my nerves set aside for more of good-time Andi.

  “Maybe I’ll bring you back an apron,” she jokes, and then signals for the server.

  When she asks for a coffee, I tell the server, “Milk instead of cream,” since I know how she takes it.

  “Thank you,” she says, a blush creeping up her cheeks.

  “No prob. Now, back to my apron, maybe we could get matching ones?”

  This gets me a huge laugh, and Andi smacks my hand with hers. “You’re the cook, not me.”

  We linger over coffee, and then the dreaded moment comes.

  “I have to grab Gabby soon. Leona has book club later today. They’re reading some saucy book like Fifty Shades.” She chuckles.

  I admit, I’m bummed, but her smile lessens the blow.

  “No prob. Let’s roll.” I toss my credit card on the table and the server picks it up.

  After we’re all settled up, we head to the car, my arm around Andi, her head leaning on my shoulder. In front of the passenger door, I get a little PDA crazy, pulling her tight and taking her lips with mine.

  It’s not enough. It’s everything.

  “That was fun,” I tell Reid, and I mean it. We met for my afternoon run, both of us bundled against the cold, my tights damp against my thighs. “Let’s do it again next week when I get back?”

  I’m feeling bold. After all, he was the one who suggested a future . . . could it be? With my lie between us like a boulder, I’m not sure.

  He nods and leans in to kiss me. Our frozen lips defrost in a matter of seconds, and if I didn’t have to grab Gabby from the bus, I’d ask Reid in to help de-ice the rest of me. Alas, work calls. Both momming and blogging.

  At the thought, my stomach sinks. I still haven’t told him. I plan to talk it over with Delia this weekend.

  “Have a good time this weekend. Be safe, and text me when you get there.” He breaks away from the kiss.

  I nod this time, and he plants another kiss on my cheek and jogs to his Jeep. I go the other way toward the bus stop.

  This weekend is much-needed. I need an intervention.

  I pull up in front of Delia’s house. The front lawn is covered in a dusting of snow, and the yellow-painted brick facade is impeccable, a reminder of what she has and I don’t.

  Perfection.

  I shake my head, banishing my evil thoughts. She’s my sister, my twin, and she deserves a good life. So do I, which is why I need to come clean with Reid.

  Speak of the devil, my phone pings with a text.

  REID: You there in one piece?

  ANDI: Yep, but got to pee so bad . . . text you later.

  Indeed, I do have to pee like a pregnant woman on a trampoline.

  Of course, Gabby’s asleep when I turn around. Duh, she didn’t jump or shriek when I parked. And . . . another reason why I need a deep, dark intervention. I’ve forgotten my daughter while consumed with thoughts of Reid.

  When I look back up, Delia has thrown the door open and is walking out to greet me. Her hair is in a bun, and she’s wearing leggings, a long sweater, and Uggs. We’re almost mirror images of each other, except my Uggs are knockoffs from Target.

  “Hey,” she says. “Can I help?”

  “Nah, we only have one duffel, but Gabby’s asleep. Can I leave her for a few minutes and run in and pee?”

  “Of course. We’re in the middle of the burbs. You could leave her there for the rest of the day with the car running and the heat blaring, and nothing would happen to her or your car.”

  “Ha, okay. I gotta go.” I dash to the door, duffel in hand, and dump it in the foyer before hitting the bathroom.

  “Where are the kids?” I ask when I walk out.

  “They’re at some enrichment thing at the school. They’ll be back soon. Oh, and James is back early. I forgot to tell you.”

  “What?” If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have come.

  “I knew you would cancel, so that’s why I didn’t. Anyway, he’s going to grab the kids when he finishes at the office. That teacher isn’t there today. You know, Ms. Perky Boobs.”

  I lean into the kitchen counter. “Seriously, I thought we agreed that was ridiculous, plus it was months ago. You’re still fixating?”

  “I know, but I still try to limit interaction. Coffee?” she asks, changing the subject.

  “Yeah, sounds good.”

  “So, tell me what’s up with you while it’s quiet for two minutes.”

  “Oh, you know. Making money from my crappy website, socking it away. I still didn’t tell Reid.”

  “Andi, you just need to tell him. He’s not going to break your confidence. I spent five minutes with him, and I know this. Plus he survived vomitgate. He’s a keeper.”

  The coffee machine whirs, grinding its own beans, sounding like a plane is taking off in the kitchen.

  “It’s not that. I know he wouldn’t blow my cover. It’s just he’s all good. I mean, honest-to-God good, and that’s not me.”

  “Andi.” Her expression levels me. “You did what you had to do under hideous circumstances.”

  “When I look at his blog and mine, I see he’s really doing what I wanted to do. He made an authentic blog that grew organically. Mine is all gaslighting and BS, making fun of people. Tormenting them, and why? Because they thought I was chubby? They didn’t want to be my friends? I decided to ruin them and profit from it. And now I have all these people really starting to pay attention to me and my blog, and I don’t know if I want that.”

  “You’re a mess.” My sister comes close and runs her hand down my back. “Andi, you’re overthinking this. You were in a bad place when you built that blog. Now you know the business. You can do whatever you want. Change it, rebuild it, tell Reid, live your life.”

  “I can’t, because there’s this little thing called money. I need a constant income.”

  “What are you not telling me? This is unlike you to be so indecisive, timid. You’re the direct one.” She moves away from me, creating space, and pours us coffee. “Because I know you have money put away. You can afford to reinvent yourself.”

  “Reid loves the UAB. He’s messaged me several times, not me but Andrea, who he thinks writes UAB.”

  “What?” She sets the coffee in front of me, half of it sloshing over the rim and onto the quartz counter. She ignores the mess, which confirms I’ve really dropped a bomb on her.

  “Yeah, in the beginning we started having all these cute meet-ups, and he thought it was random. Of course, it was coincidental, but I knew who he was. I knew he wanted to move his blog to a more full-time gig, because he told me so when he messaged UAB and didn’t know I was Andi.” I run my hair through my messy bun, yanking it out. “It’s too complicated. A mess.”

  “You still have to come clean. Period.”

  “Like you stalking James and his internet habits?”

  “That’s different.” She side-eyes me, and no more is said because the front door bangs open and in comes Robbie and Celia, and of course, James.

  “Mom, hi!” Celia says. “Hey, come on, Aunt Andi. Get Gabby out of the car.”

  “Andi, why didn’t you bring your blogger friend?” James calls from the hallway.

  And this is basically how the rest of the weekend passes. Shrieking and kids playing, and James grilling me about Reid.

  Delia and I don’t get another chance to discuss my lie or weakness. We don’t come up with a plan. Instead, we drink wine, talk, laugh, and watch our kids love on one another.

  Intervention: nil.

  HOWDY, folks.

  It would seem that our good friend MommyX3 is at it again. As if private school weren’t enough of a stretch, her little girl is apparently becoming an equestrian. See right here, she’s started a small GoFundMe, circulating it among her blogger friends and directi
ng them to share and share again. Poor MommyX3 has to spend the summer in Arizona on some ranch, helping Baby #3 be the best she can be. This costs money. I get it, but why do we have to pay for it?

  Look at Lila, the little mini star, spending a few months in Hollywood on her mom’s dime, working hard at the next step of her career, and decide, do we pay for Baby #3?

  I don’t think so.

  Oh, by the way, MommyX3 is willing to work with any and all businesses in Arizona.

  Puh-lease.

  That’s all I have for you tonight.

  Affectionately yours,

  The UnAffectionate Blogger

  As soon as I post, comments start flooding in. Page views are multiplying. The blogger community has a love-hate relationship with GoFundMe. A kid with Lyme disease, yay. Private violin lessons, nope. House fire and everything destroyed, yay. New house with palatial blogging home office, nope. You get me.

  I change screens and make sure all my ads are operating as planned. My mind is calculating payouts when my phone dings.

  REID: How was the weekend?

  My heart flutters. I like this guy, and I think he likes me. It’s the first genuine conversation I’ve had with myself. And I need to take things to the next level with him.

  It’s Sunday night, and I’m finally tucked into bed. Comfy jammies cover my legs, my laptop resting over top of them. Gabby is fast asleep after not shutting up for one second of the car ride home. She loves her cousins, and at that thought, a weird melancholy comes over me. She’d probably love siblings.

  Shoving my shitty thoughts aside, I text Reid back.

  ANDI: Was fun. Good for Gabby, fun with the kids, and Delia and I drank A LOT of wine.

  REID: No barfing?

  I laugh out loud. This guy does it for me.

  Part of my heart splinters. What if I were a successful mom blogger? We could be a power-blogging couple.