Guy Hater: A Romantic Comedy

by Ethan Asher

  There’s a sharp intake of breath followed by a brief pause. “You met someone, Charleigh?”

  “Uh-huh. Sebastian.”

  “Sebastian? That’s a dreamy name. What’s he like?”

  I fill her in on everything that happened last night, from the botched shot to the chardonnay, Sméagol, and the kiss.

  “Shut up. He kissed you?”

  “Yup. But I’d hardly call it a kiss. A new word needs to be invented to adequately describe what that man’s lips did to me. My body was on fire for the rest of the night. I couldn’t think straight.”

  Marissa lets out a short squeal of delight. “I’m so happy for you, Charleigh. It’s been so long since you’ve been with someone. And there’s nothing wrong with that,” Marissa adds hurriedly. “You’ve been so busy with work. I know what that’s like.”

  “It has been hectic to say the least,” I say with a sigh. And now that I think about it, I’ve spent more nights at my office in the past year than I have in someone else’s bed.

  “Well, I’m so happy for you, Charleigh. And you know what? You should invite him to dinner. He can be your sinfully sexy buffer between you and Guy.”

  “I like that.”

  But then I remember that I don’t have his number. That I refused to keep his number.

  I told you so, Emma says, scoffing at my stupidity.

  “I don’t have his number. I kinda tossed it.”

  “Kinda tossed it? How does that work?”

  I tell her the rest of the story.

  Marissa hums. “Then Google his ass and find him. I’m sure he has a Facebook profile or something.”

  “I’m not going to cyberstalk the man.”

  I’ve put that phase of my life behind me. Mostly.

  “Anyway, I couldn’t find him if I wanted to. His name isn’t really Sebastian.”

  I explain the whole Sebastian and Emma dynamic, and even though she finds the whole thing adorable, I can tell she thinks I'm crazy for ripping up the card that had his actual name and number on it.

  She’s not the only one, Emma tells me.

  "I'm sure you two will run into each other again. There's only one grocery store in Whispering Pine. You're bound to bump into each other in the produce section. Reaching for the same bunch of bananas. Your hands brushing each other's as—"

  I laugh as Marissa recounts her imaginative fairy-tale version of how I’m to meet my mystery man again. She goes on for another minute or two, outlining everything from our first date down to his proposal and the names of our children. Finn and Karina.

  "Okay, first of all, I hate bananas. And second…” I pause, trying to figure out how to phrase the next part. I take a breath. "That's some future you've detailed for Sebastian and me."

  "I'm sorry," Marissa says with a sigh. "I got carried away. With the wedding coming up soon, I've just been so—I don't know. I just want everyone to be as happy and in love as me. It’s so silly, I know."

  I laugh. “No, I get it. How’s the wedding planning going, anyway? I can’t believe I haven’t asked yet.”

  I start my car and head for work as Marissa gives me the full rundown. It’s just as detailed as her vision of my prospective meeting and eventual marriage with Sebastian. By the time I make it to the parking garage, Marissa’s finally winding down.

  “So to recap.” Oh dear, please don’t. “Joint bachelor/bachelorette party in three months. Wedding the week after.”

  Wait. That’s it? Thank Jesus. And thank GOD I’m not in the wedding party, but that’s for Marissa’s sake, really. I’d be horrible with everything going on in my life right now.

  I shut off my car and grab my purse. “Wow, it’s all happening so fast.”

  “I know!” I can feel Marissa vibrating with joy through the phone. “Now you’ve got to find your mystery man. For the good of your children.”

  I hop out of my car. “Frank and Karen, right?”

  "Frank? Karen? What decade do you think this is, Charleigh? Finn and Karina. They’re going to be fraternal twins.”

  Oh lord. This wedding needs to happen sooner rather than later. We say our goodbyes, and as I’m walking toward the offices of Florence + Foxe, my mind meanders back to Sebastian, to his body, and then to gallons of hot fudge dripping all over said body.

  AKA my dream last night.

  4

  Guy

  I never thought coming back to Whispering Pine would be this difficult. It’s taken ten years for me to drum up enough courage. Add a few months to that count and that’s how long it’s taken me to step back inside my childhood home.

  I pause for a moment on the porch. My breath puffs in the air in front of me as I stare at the door. After living here for over a month now, you'd think it would get easier. But each time I head up the steps to the porch I'm flooded by memories, the good and the bad. And right now, an especially strong one is hitting me hard in the chest.

  The details in my memories have grown hazy over the years but the emotions have sharpened into a fine point. I don't remember what my parents wore that night. I don't remember what they said to me before they left. But I do remember how I felt when I learned I'd never see them again because I feel it right now. It's a stabbing pain in my core, twisting and aching and spreading through me.

  I take in a deep breath, turn around, and cup my hands in front of my face, exhaling warm air into them. I follow the narrow, winding path that weaves through the trees, connecting the house to the road. I make a mental note of the landscaping work that needs to be done once the snow finally stops. It’s been an unseasonably cold April, a new snowstorm nearly every week. Although each one has been weaker than the last, we’re due for a big one tonight. The final, violent death throe of a winter that’s gone on for far too long.

  I force the unpleasant memory out of my mind with a few deep breaths and then turn around and head back to the house. The brushed metal doorknob is icy cold as I wrap my palm around it. The lock clicks and the door creaks open. A small cloud of dust puffs into the air and then rolls along the floor.

  The floorboards shift and moan as I shut the door behind me, the thud of the door echoing through the empty room. I'm in the process of clearing everything out. Furniture, forgotten clothes and knick-knacks, dishes, cups, and mugs—I'm donating all of it. There are too many memories attached to these things, and I need to put them behind me.

  The orange light from the setting sun spills onto the floor in long wide streaks. This house is nothing if not beautiful. The ceiling soars high above me, buttressed by large, exposed timber beams. There’s so much open space that it feels like an extension of the forest of evergreens and pine trees that surround the property.

  My parents started construction on the house when my mom was pregnant with me, finishing it a few years after I was born. They put their heart and soul into making this house a home, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t sense them in it even now. That’s why it’s so hard to come back. They left their mark on this house, and now it’s time to leave mine.

  After neglecting to take care of it for years, I’ve decided to renovate it. I can’t stand to see the house my parents built fall into disrepair by no fault other than my own.

  I drop my coat on the island in the kitchen, fill a glass with water, and then head upstairs. I pause in front of my old bedroom. The door is closed and has been since I left Whispering Pine when I was a teenager. I reach out and grab the knob but I pause, staring at the door for a few moments before my phone rings and jolts me from my trance.

  Jamie greets me when I answer. “Guy! What are you up to?”

  “Not much. Just about to pack up the last of my stuff.”

  “When’s the reno supposed to start again?”

  I turn around and rest my forearms against the railing, glancing down at the great room below. “Next week, hopefully.”

  “Hopefully?”

  “Well, my designer’s fallen off the face of the earth. We were supposed to meet earlier
today to go over some of the scheduling details but she was a no-show.”

  “Seriously?”

  “She hasn’t returned my calls or emails.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll give her another day. I really don’t want to go through this whole process again with someone new.” Just thinking about it makes me nauseous. But then again, do I want to go through this process with someone who vanishes without a word?

  The railing begins to creak and buckle under my weight, so I pull myself away and walk down the hallway toward the spare bedroom I’ve been staying in for the last few weeks.

  “I talked with Charleigh today.” Jamie pauses. I can hear the light sound of his breath. He’s dangling the words out there like bait, hoping I bite.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Jamie laughs. "No reason. Just wanted to let you know. Oh, by the way, she had the same excuse you did for why she missed dinner."

  “It wasn’t an excuse. I met someone and lost track of time.”

  “Yeah, small world because so did Charleigh. Imagine that, two people who haven’t so much as dated another person in the past year met their perfect match on the same night.”

  I don’t respond. I don’t need to. Jamie can believe me or not—it doesn’t matter to me. I close my eyes as I lean against the doorframe, remembering the way her lips felt against mine. The way she tasted. Her scent and every little detail, from how she traced the edge of her wine glass with her fingertip to how she sucked in her bottom lip before she laughed. I’d do anything to find out her real name.

  “Whatever,” Jamie says finally. “It doesn’t matter. I’m calling to let you know that we’re re-scheduling dinner, and I’m making sure that you’ll be there.”

  I run my hand through my hair as I push off from the doorframe and head for the cot in the middle of the room. “I’ll be there.”

  “Charleigh will be there too, you know.”

  “She’s the one with the issue of being in the same room together.”

  “Just—okay, fine. I’ll text you the details.”

  We hang up and I lie back on the cot. My living arrangement is nothing if not spartan. There's a single cot in the middle of the room. Next to it is a makeshift nightstand with a camping lantern placed on top. My dresser is comprised of a beat-up old suitcase that I still haven't completely unpacked. I have a few tattered copies of Raymond Chandler novels to keep me company, but that's it. I probably should've rented an apartment until the reno's over, but a part of me likes roughing it after having it relatively easy for much of my life. Financially, at least.

  I close my eyes, and my mind inevitably drifts back to Emma. I’ve replayed that night over and over in my head ever since I left the bar to try and calm Jamie down about missing the dinner. I’ve never felt so strongly about anyone before, but something tugged at me the moment I saw her sit down at the bar. I knew I’d talk to her. A part of me knew I’d kiss her, although not as quickly as it happened.

  I'm deep in my revery when my phone rings again. I let out a sigh, but when I see the name on the screen, I smile.

  “Deanna! How are you?”

  Deanna is Jamie and Charleigh’s mother. She’s essentially my second mother, and she’s treated me like a second son for as long as I can remember.

  “I’d be better if you’d get out of that old house of yours until you’re done with the renovation. It’s just not safe. And to be breathing…”

  “Deanna.”

  "Who knows what's in that house after all these years? Just last week I heard on the news that…"

  “Deanna!”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “It’s fine.” I sigh. “I’m fine, really.”

  “Well, I just want to make sure. You didn’t come over for dinner last night, and that’s just not like you. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  I shake my head. “I met someone. That’s it. There isn’t some deadly fungus or mold circulating in the air that’s making me an amnesiac.”

  “You know carbon monoxide is the number one silent killer. It could be—wait. You met someone? That’s wonderful! You’re going to have to tell me all about her.” She hums for a moment and then says, “How about breakfast tomorrow? You’ve got to eat, right? If you aren’t going to stay here while you’re renovating, then you have to at least let me feed you.”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow morning bright and early.” I’ll make sure to be the one to cook, though. Deanna isn’t exactly known for her prowess in the kitchen. I spent nearly two years eating her food when her family took me in after my parents’ accident, so I know what I’m up against.

  “Great! Make sure you bring your appetite. And your uniform. You look so handsome in that.”

  I grin into the phone. “I’ll be leaving for work afterward, so I’ll be wearing it.”

  We say our goodbyes, and I fall back against my cot. After a few minutes, I grab one of the Chandler novels and page through it. I set it down after reading the same paragraph four times. My mind is still stuck on Emma, and it won’t be unstuck until I find her again.

  5

  Charleigh

  My toes dig into my bedspread as I strain my arm reaching for the ceiling above me. Almost there. Just a little bit more. Finally, I manage to press that last bit of duct tape against the ceiling with my fingertips.

  I hop off my bed to admire my handiwork. Strips of duct tape span an area about the size of a basketball. It faintly resembles a star, so long as I blur my vision. I’m no engineer, but I’m at least fifty percent sure that the new paper towels I’ve wadded underneath the duct tape will stop the constant drip of water from the ceiling.

  I make a mental note to follow up with my landlord again and then grab my coat and purse. My phone lights up as I reach into my purse for my keys. After locking the door, I check my phone and find a text from my mom.

  Mom: Are you still coming over for breakfast? Mom

  “Shit!” I yell at my screen. And then once again as I look at the time: 8:47 a.m.

  Eleanor, the elderly woman who lives a few doors down from me, humphs and gives me a look that says, “Well, I never!”

  “Sorry, Eleanor!” I say as she passes by me toward the stairs. She shakes her head, waving me off as she mutters something about “kids these days” and “respect.”

  Whatever, Eleanor. You’re not as wholesome as you want everyone to believe. I’ve seen the revolving door of men going into your apartment.

  But then I remind myself that she’s getting a whole lot more action than me. You know your love life’s abysmal when you’re jealous of your geriatric neighbor.

  I type that I can’t make it to breakfast, and that I’m sorry, and that I just don’t have time. But then my stomach twists in on itself, coiling tightly. I can’t back out, not after missing dinner. I promised my mother that I’d come over for breakfast. Even though I’m going to be late for work, I know I have to at least show up for a little bit. I sigh.

  Charleigh: Of course! I’m on my way now.

  Mom: I’m so glad! We’re having pancakes! Mom

  I can't help but laugh. I've told her that she doesn't need to sign every text she sends—I know it's her—but she keeps it up without fail.

  I shove my phone back into my purse and head to my car. As I hop into the driver’s seat I spot Eleanor and one of her suitors hugging. He’s dressed in a vintage tweed suit and cap that I’m sure he’s had for decades. He’s an adorable grandpa. My heart flutters when I see the roses he’s hiding behind his back. And when I see the look on Eleanor’s face as he hands them to her, my cheeks get sore from smiling so widely.

  He opens the passenger door for her, helps her inside, and then shuts it. The look on his face as he walks back to the driver’s seat nearly brings me to tears. The scene is just so adorably romantic. But then my beautiful mind reminds me how completely and utterly single I am, and that
no man will ever make any sweeping romantic gestures toward me, not in a million years plus infinity because that’s what brains do.

  I’m happy for you Eleanor. REALLY. HAPPY.

  And then to add insult to injury, my car won’t start. “Come on…” I coax Franny, my fifteen-year-old Forester. She whines and whirrs and screeches at me but refuses to start.

  I sigh, letting my head knock into the steering wheel. I glance over and watch Eleanor and her man drive away. I could've had that if only I'd saved Sebastian's number. I could call him up right now, and he'd come over to fix Franny…

  He’d be shirtless, of course, even though it’s below freezing. There’d be grease smears all over his body. Sweat. Muscles galore.

  I see the problem, he’d tell me.

  Oh yeah? I’d ask, batting my eyelashes.

  You need to let her warm up. You can’t just crank it when she’s cold, he’d tell me as he leaned against the hood. He’d talk about spark plugs and carburetors and I’d nod along, pretending to know exactly what he’s talking about.

  And then we’d somehow end up in bed together because it’s my fantasy and I don’t care how unrealistic it is.

  I take a deep breath and try Franny again. She doesn’t sound as bad, but she still won’t start. I give her another minute before trying one last time. Click, click, vrrrrrrrooooom.

  I squeal with delight and then promptly reverse out of my spot before Franny decides to die on me. Fifteen minutes later and I’m at my mother’s house.

  “Mom!” I call out as I open the front door to the house.

  “In the kitchen, honey,” my mom yells back at me.

  Jackpot.

  The smells from the kitchen float down the narrow hallway toward the front door, and strangely enough, they actually smell appetizing. When it comes to my mother's cooking, appetizing usually isn't in the same sentence. I feel like a cartoon character who has just smelled an apple pie, sniffing the air as they float toward it. I have no idea what my mother is making, but I know it will be in my mouth shortly.