Boyfriend by the Book: A feel good romantic comedy

by Briggs, Laura

  “Where are my sunglasses?” I dug through my tote bag for the fifth time, Basil watching with interest from his perch on the sofa arm. I was due for work in twenty minutes, but I needed my special sunglasses with the prescription lenses for driving. I had looked everywhere—my car, my bungalow, even the less probable places like the waste basket and fridge. Then I remembered: Brock’s car.

  I had worn them on the drive to lunch. I must have set them down, or maybe they fell from my tote bag as I climbed from the car. Groaning, I fished out my cell phone, locating the number he’d given me the first time we met. It went to voice mail.

  “Brock, it’s Jodi Nichols. From Saturday’s lunch?” I paused, searching for the best way to phrase this. There was no good way, so I plunged back in. “I think I might have left my sunglasses in your car? They’re black with prescription lenses…Anyway, if they turn up, I’d be grateful if you could let me know. Thanks.”

  I hung up, cringing at how awkward I must’ve sounded. After our lackluster date, I had banked on never seeing this guy again. But if he had my sunglasses, I’d have to see him at least one more time. Buck up, Jodi. You deal with unpleasant surprises all the time at work. This guy is no worse than the worst guest you’ve ever had to face at the Regent.

  Work was busy, as it always is on a Monday. By the time my shift ended, I had almost forgotten about the lost sunglasses when I saw that Brock had left a message on my phone. I played it, hearing Brock’s voice over a noisy background. “Jodi, hi. Your sunglasses were in my car’s passenger seat.” He chuckled and I felt a wave of embarrassment for being so careless. “I’ve got them at my workplace when you’re ready to pick them up. Let me give you the address.”

  It was a couple of blocks from the Thai food restaurant, a trendy gym complete with juice bar, sauna, and tanning salon on the premises. Fit-looking men and women performed aerobics behind the rows of large glass windows. I couldn’t see Brock anywhere, the small blonde at the reception desk informing me he was about to clock out for the day. A moment later, he emerged from the back offices, dressed in casual clothes and carrying a duffel bag.

  “You’re here,” he said. “I was hoping you would show up soon. I have to be at a class across town by five o’clock. A few more minutes and you would have missed me.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you,” I said, glad for an excuse not to linger.

  Brock didn’t seem to be in a hurry, though. He set his duffel bag on the counter, giving me a subtle smile. “Still reading Byron?” he asked. “I can lend you some other kinds of poetry if you’re looking for something a little more obscure. I’m sort of a collector.”

  “Oh, I’m kind of moving on from poetry for now,” I told him. The volume of Bryon’s works had been returned to its owner, who gave me a scolding look when I told them I had read the whole thing in a week. Apparently, you're supposed to savor this kind of experience.

  “I think everyone should read poetry,” Brock told me. “It’s like therapy for the soul. The perfect way to connect with your innermost thoughts and purge the negative energy that keeps dragging you down. That’s something I learned in my class, actually.”

  “Really,” I said. Maybe there was a creative side to Brock after all. “You know, I’ve always meant to take a class in something creative,” I told him. “Baking or maybe gourmet cooking, since I basically live off pre-packaged foods these days. Or knitting, even." I thought of my previous abandoned hobby. "Yours is probably in creative writing. Or is it a literature class?”

  “It’s a mandatory class,” Brock answered. “For anger management.”

  I almost laughed before I realized he wasn’t kidding. Everything Brock said had a deadpan quality, including his jokes, so it was hard to tell the difference. My face paled slightly. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

  He gave a shrug. “It was a misunderstanding. Involving a car. It got sort of dented up.”

  He smiled, as if thinking of a secret. Then it was gone, his face serious again, as he continued, “I was upset at the time. Heartbroken, actually. A person I really cared about had just betrayed me. I guess my emotions got the best of me.”

  What did he mean by ‘dented up’ — as in, with a baseball bat? Or something more accidental? Then again, he probably wouldn’t be in anger management class for something that was an accident.

  Didn’t Heathcliff have anger issues too?

  I blocked these thoughts from my mind. “That’s terrible, Brock. You must have been really upset.”

  “Devastated is more like it,” he said. “But I’ve put it all behind me now. I’m over that relationship and ready to move on.” With a meaningful smile that sent alarm bells off in my head.

  Oh, no. No, no, no…Kristen and Monique you are dead. So, so dead.

  “Well, um, about my sunglasses,” I said, hoping to wrap this encounter up. Brock reached beneath the desk, retrieving the misplaced item. I put them in my purse and said, “Thanks again for finding them. I should let you get to your class now.”

  “Wait,” he said.

  Coming around the desk, he looked down at me from way too close for comfort. “So when can you meet me again?” he asked. “I have to work late most nights, but Friday is good, if you don’t have anything going on.”

  “Oh, um…” I glanced around, taking a step back. “I think we’ve had a misunderstanding. I have a really busy work schedule. It doesn’t leave much time for a social life.” This was mostly true, but I could hear the strained quality in my voice.

  Brock frowned. “Check your schedule and get back to me. I’m sure we can find something that works.”

  “I don’t think we will,” I answered. In the firm but polite voice I used for dealing with the hotel’s most difficult customers. “I’m sorry, Brock, but I really have to go. Thanks for returning my sunglasses.” I turned and moved swiftly out the door, past a group of uber tan women in tank tops and gym shorts. One of them waved to Brock, but he didn’t seem to notice, his gaze fixed on my hasty exit.

  All the way to my car, I could feel him watching me. He stood on the other side of the glass, muscular arms folded across his chest. Brooding. He was a lot more like Heathcliff than I ever bargained for. What were the odds?

  It had to be a coincidence, these resemblances. Still, it felt like the relationship guide was somehow leading me to exactly the kind of men these fictional heroines attracted. Men whose emotional baggage and personal issues made it difficult to picture a real life romance with them. Could life really imitate art? I wondered, shuddering as I caught a glimpse of Brock in my rearview mirror.

  _________________________

  Brock called my cell phone five times over the next two days. He didn’t leave any messages, but once I caught the sound of him breathing, which was bad enough. Did he think I was just playing hard to get? Or was he out-and-out harassing me, like the character from Emily Bronte’s novel? Both were terrible possibilities, and I hoped that blocking his number would be enough to send the message I wasn’t interested in hearing from him anymore.

  But it wasn’t.

  Thursday morning, Brock strode through the doors to the Regent Hotel’s lobby. He was wearing the same paint-stained jeans as before, and a t-shirt with a skull and crossbones motif. Natalia gave him a puzzled glance as he barged past her end of the reception desk. “Can I help you, sir?” she called after him.

  He didn’t even look at her, making a beeline for the computer where I was booking dinner reservations for a customer. Planting his hands on the desk, he asked me, “What’s the big idea, Jodi? You act all interested in me, then block my phone calls when I try to get back to you?”

  I stared at him, not sure what to say. We had only been on one date. I told him openly yet delicately that I didn't see a second date in our future. I didn’t even know his last name, for crying out loud! It wasn’t as if I had led him on or anything, was it? Keeping my voice polite, I answered. “I’m sorry Brock, but I don’t know what you’re talking about
.”

  “You know,” he insisted. “Leaving your sunglasses in my car so we’d have to meet again. It was obvious that’s why you did it.” He leaned in. "I get why women do things, Jodi."

  I felt slightly nervous. “That was an accident,” I said. “Really. I just forgot them.”

  My inner Catherine was completely vanquished now. Forget poetry, forget art, forget episodes of tumultuous passion. I had never understood that relationship, ever.

  Customers were starting to notice our tense exchange, peering at us from around their newspapers and electronic readers. Others were on their way to the dining room and paused at the sight of a confrontation brewing. Even if they somehow mistook him for an irate customer, this was not the kind of scene befitting of a place like the Regent. I had to smooth this over quick as possible.

  Lowering my voice, I told him, “This isn’t really a good place to discuss this.”

  “Why? Because you can’t just block me with the push of a button?”

  “Brock, listen,” I said. “I’m sorry if you got the wrong idea—”

  “Only because you gave it to me,” he interrupted, voice echoing across the lobby. “Right before you changed your mind, that is. Why did you change your mind?” With a menacing glare for the accusation.

  “I didn’t,” I hissed. “I just…didn’t feel a connection with you. I’m sorry,” I added, feeling a pang of guilt. Why did I ever let my friends push me into this whole ‘find your inner heroine’ thing? Now people were starting to get hurt. Though Brock looked more angry than hurt as he gripped the edge of the desk.

  “There’s someone else, isn’t there?” he demanded. “Some jerk who can’t take the competition. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Brock, please…”

  I could see Natalia watching all of this, wide eyed as she tried to conduct a phone conversation with a customer. She had probably connected Brock with my lunch date from Saturday. Now maybe she would understand why I didn’t go out on many dates.

  “There’s no one else,” I assured him. “I just don’t want to see you anymore. Now—can I help you with anything hotel-related? If not, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  Or I could get Tyson, the beefy security guard to do it for me. I felt around under the desk for our emergency button. Brock gave me another of his long, brooding stares. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

  Customers moved from his path, glancing back at him curiously. I moved my hand away from the button, letting out a sigh of relief. That could have gone a lot worse. Just as I was congratulating myself on dodging a bullet, Brock came to a halt.

  Three feet from the door stood a small table, a vase of fresh roses perched on top of it. Brock looked at it. A moment later, his hand shot out, pushing the vase from the table in a lightning swift motion.

  The sound of glass shattering was like a small explosion, followed by several gasps and a woman’s high-pitched scream. The vase was in pieces, rose petals covering the rug as they fluttered off the stems.

  What did Catherine do in the book to control Heathcliff's tantrums? The answer? NOTHING!!!

  Brock just kept on walking afterwards. Giles held open the door for him with a puzzled look for the commotion inside. I was standing with a hand over my mouth as Natalia moved beside me to whisper, “Who was that, Jodi?”

  I was too stunned to think of a response. Part of the housekeeping staff rushed forward to clean up the broken vase. Natalia was trying to calm the customers now, including Ms. Dabree, who was the source of the scream. Most of the others had gone about their business, talking in hushed tones as they moved towards the dining room or staircase.

  I felt the force of Ms. Brampton’s stare before I locked eyes with her. A look that sent a chill straight through me, her arms crossed as she surveyed me from the entrance to the hall.

  “May I speak to you in my office please, Ms. Nichols?”

  ~7~

  It wasn’t Ms. Brampton’s style to raise her voice. Instead, she sat behind her desk, cool and collected, as I wondered if my employment was about to become a thing of the past. I had shifted my weight twice when she finally spoke. Her voice held an icy edge.

  “Your social life is not my concern, Ms. Nichols. Unless, of course, it bleeds into your work. And I’m afraid that is exactly what yours has done.”

  I blushed. “I know Ms. Brampton. I can’t tell you how sorry I am—”

  “No, you can’t,” she interrupted. “I have no interest in the details of this…relationship. I only want your assurance that your friend will no longer be an issue for the patrons of this hotel. Or me.”

  “It won’t be an issue for anyone,” I promised. “I don’t intend to see that person ever again, if I can help it. That incident was the last thing I ever wanted to happen here. Or anywhere, for that matter.”

  Did I imagine her flicker of a smile in response? It was gone already, Ms. Brampton stoic as ever. “Well, that is certainly a relief to hear. I thought you had better judgment than that. I’m glad to see it confirmed.”

  I nodded, feeling a lump well up in my throat. I quickly fought it back, keeping my expression as impassive as hers. Ms. Brampton would not be moved by tears. Excuses would make no difference either. I would have to face the consequences of Brock’s temper tantrum, fair or not.

  After a moment, she let out a sigh. “I can’t overlook this misstep in judgment, Ms. Nichols. Not even with your excellent track record here. Any further mistakes won’t be dealt with so lightly, I assure you.”

  I resisted the urge to look at my feet. This was crushing news. My reputation and job in danger because of a lunch date I never even wanted to go on. It hurt like crazy, but there was nothing I could do about it. Except promise that it would never, ever happen again.

  “You can’t let one bad incident ruin your chance for happiness,” Kristen argued, when I told her about it at Book Bound later that afternoon. She was doing inventory, a clipboard in her hand that she kept waving at me in a bossy sort of way. I wasn’t backing down this time, my hands planted firmly on my hips for this argument.

  “There were two bad incidents,” I reminded her, thinking of my not-quite-divorced admirer from the jewelry store. “This whole experiment has been a disaster from the word go. They should put a warning label on that book. 'Caution — hazardous to mental health.'"

  I spied copies of it stocked in the self-help aisle. A customer had picked one up and was reading the glowing comments printed on the jacket's back cover. Poor woman. The urge to warn her against it with a shout was put in check by Kristen blocking my view, her arms folded as she gave me a stern look.

  “I can’t believe you’re giving up this easily,” she told me. “You were finally dating again, after months of being alone. Now you’ll just be stuck at home with your cat again.”

  “Sorry, Kristen, but I don’t have a choice." My tone was firm. "No more fix-ups and no more advice. I’ll go out with someone when I’m ready—and I won’t need a book to tell me how to do it.”

  She argued some more, but I finally convinced her that I meant it. I had to draw the line somewhere, especially when it came to my job. There was no way I could risk my whole future for the sake of a few dates. Of course my friends would say I was doing exactly that by choosing not to use the advice book anymore. It was just a risk I would have to take.

  _________________________

  The Horse and Cart was a medieval-themed pub and restaurant, and the last place I expected someone like Monique to host their engagement party. She was more of a fine dining kind of girl. But her fiancé, Justin, was a King Arthur buff and wanted their celebration to reflect some of his interests—especially since their wedding ceremony wasn’t likely to include any of them.

  “Can you believe he wants the groomsmen to wear chainmail?” Monique wondered. “Oh, and he wants to hire some catering service that provides costumed servers dressed up as maids and couriers and nerdy medieval stuff—can you bel
ieve that?”

  “You’re not actually agreeing to it?” Stephanie asked, incredulously. She was sitting at the same table as Monique and me, her boyfriend working the night shift at the ER. Kristen and Josh were on their way via taxi cab, the rest of the thirty or so guests packed into the surrounding tables in the private dining room Monique had reluctantly reserved.

  “Of course not," Monique answered. "My wedding is going to be modern elegance, no dragons or armor involved, trust me. That’s why we’re having our engagement party in a barn,” she added, referring to the pub’s rustic interior.

  I kind of liked its high wooden beams and arched doorways, the stone hearth and old-fashioned tapestries hung on the wall, so I didn't nod my head in agreement.

  “I think it’s kind of fun,” I told her. “It’s got a sense of old world charm about it.”

  “You’ve got the ‘old’ part right,” Stephanie said, crinkling her nose at our surroundings. She checked the screen on her phone, no doubt hoping there would be a message from her boyfriend.

  “Yeah, well it’s better than sacrificing my big day to some weird fan boy obsession,” Monique told us. She downed more of her cider, making a face afterward. Her fiancé was at a neighboring table of guests, laughing uproariously at some story his copilot from the airline was telling. I realized it was the same pilot Monique had tried to set me up with before, his new girlfriend leaning up to whisper something in his ear before she rose from the table.

  I glanced away, pretending to study the crested shield on display above our table. The server asked if we wanted anything else. Monique waved them away before I could get a refill on my drink. She was definitely having a crappy time, I thought.

  “Well, at least Justin looks good in a tunic,” Stephanie told her, receiving a wry smile in return. Monique’s fiancé had a rugged build and square jaw perfect for carrying off the medieval style shirt he was sporting tonight. A few of his friends had dressed in similar fashion for tonight’s theme and didn’t carry it off as well.