Jack of all trades, master of none.
What was true for work was doubly true for relationships. He was friendly to his neighbors, but he never got to know them past a Hey, how are you. He prized sensation over emotion. He’d tried practically every drug in existence. But if he felt himself wanting to use more than casually, he stopped. Stone-cold. Addiction was just a fancy word for need. More than anything in the world, he didn’t want to need anything. Or anyone. Even getting too comfortable in any one town bothered him.
Mostly he wanted to float. His great weakness was laziness, he figured. The least of the seven deadlies. What was sloth compared to greed or wrath? No one killed anyone for the chance to sleep all afternoon. Still, it was on the list.
A realist, then. But in one way he was exceptional. In bed he was the opposite of lazy. He wanted to please, to win, to leave his conquests stunned by how hard and often they came. A performer with an audience of one. Grand passion was beyond him, but in a boozy one-night stand grand passion took second place to technique. And his technique was impeccable.
Besides, the girls he brought home were mostly comparing him to drunk nineteen-year-old boys who wanted to get off and pass out. The bar was low.
He didn’t always succeed, of course. Sometimes the girls were too drunk. And occasionally, he came across a female version of himself, a woman who had seen every trick, knew his games.
But he usually sent his women home happy. Most seemed to know intuitively that they were one-night stands, that like any good magician Brian preferred a new audience every night. Though sometimes they weren’t in on the joke. Back in Seattle he’d woken up to Samantha—Susannah?—beating on his door. You can’t fuck me like that and then not call me, she’d whimpered.
To which he’d said, Why not?
These days Brian defined himself by his prowess as a seducer. A cocksman, the word both archaic and strangely modern. If Charlottesville bored him, he could pack up, throw his bag in his truck. A day later, in a new bar in a new city, he’d have a solid chance of walking out with a woman on his arm. Without an expensive car to impress her or friends to laugh at his jokes. Pickups were a kind of alchemy. Only a fellow practitioner could truly appreciate the skill they required.
Two years before, he’d set a number for himself. One hundred. He wanted to bed—okay, fuck—an even hundred girls. And they had to be solid sixes and up. He reached the number on a cold January night in Charlottesville, a few flakes trickling from the gray sky.
* * *
The next night he met Becks.
He was at the Fox ’n’ Hound, one of Charlottesville’s classier bars. Meaning its bouncers actually checked licenses. Brian usually avoided it. Nineteen-year-olds were his preferred targets. Like Matthew McConaughey had said in Dazed and Confused, his new favorite movie, I get older, they stay the same age. But that day he had built his first working website. He’d decided to reward himself with the Fox ’n’ Hound’s cheeseburger, voted Best in Charlottesville by the UVA student paper.
It wasn’t even eight. The place was mostly empty. Soon as he walked in, he saw her, sitting with three friends in the corner. He knew right away she wasn’t from Virginia. She was angular, a hint of hardness in her face. Not his usual type. But he liked the way she looked at him. The style here tended to hair flips and side glances. This one checked him out straight on. Fearless. Not the late-night courage alcohol brought, either. No booze shine in her eyes.
He parked himself on the short side of the bar, where he could keep an eye on her table. When she stood up he saw that she was tall, taller than he’d expected, and that her angularity extended to her body. She was skinny, narrow-hipped, almost flat-chested under her simple black T-shirt. Any local girl with tits that small would have insisted on a push-up bra.
She strode to the bar, positioned herself at the corner, three stools away.
Some guys hesitated in these moments, waited for a clear go signal. Not Brian. Waiting was weak. Anyway, the quicker he found out if he had a chance, the quicker he could move on if he didn’t.
He edged off the stool, stepped toward her. “Hi.”
She turned his way. Cool, appraising. Not pretending to be surprised at his interest. Some tall women seemed ashamed of their height. She held herself up confidently. Even if her face was a bit too planed to be beautiful, her nose too beaky.
“Hi.”
“What are you having?”
“That’s your opening, dude?”
He liked her even more for calling him on his line. “It’s friendly and casual. Not too intrusive.”
“You’ve thought this through.”
“Not at all.”
“Anyway, I haven’t decided.”
“I don’t believe you. You know what you like.”
She gave the tiniest shrug, I don’t care if you believe me or not. She held his gaze and he surprised himself by looking away first.
“Scotch and soda,” he said.
“You’re overestimating me.”
The bartender slid over. “Pitcher of Coors Light,” she said. “And four cups. Please.”
“Coors Light?”
“Is that a problem?”
“It wouldn’t be my first choice.”
Her lips twitched. A smile narrow and brief. Still, he couldn’t help thinking of sunlight breaking through a heavy sky.
The bartender slid the pitcher across. “Sixteen, please.”
She pushed a twenty over, left the change. Rich girl.
“When you’re done choking that down come talk to me.”
She stepped away from the bar, looked him over.
“You don’t lack for confidence—” She lifted a hand, What’s your name?
“Drink with me, I’ll tell you.”
“Bet it’s extremely boring.” Pause. “Your name, I mean.”
“My name’s exciting. I’m boring.”
“Interesting sales pitch.”
Brian let her have the last word and slipped back to his stool. Two cute chicks took the stools next to his. He ignored them. He didn’t usually give up the initiative this way, but he sensed this tall girl might be worth the trouble. Not a girl. Not a chick. A woman who played back.
Every so often she peeked over. Brian couldn’t read the look, didn’t know if it meant, Yes, I’m stuck here with my friends but I haven’t forgotten you, or, Hey, creeper, still hanging around? He made himself eat slowly. The burger was as delicious as promised. Medium-rare and just greasy enough. He finished his drink, ordered another. Vodka and grapefruit juice. A greyhound. His regular. Decent even with the cheapest vodka but harsh enough to discourage fast drinking.
An hour and a half drifted by. The room filled. One of her friends came up for a fresh pitcher. He finished the second greyhound, ordered one more, decided that when it was done he’d get gone. He had broken his own rules by hanging around like a lost puppy. They like you or they don’t, and if they don’t, move on. Plus the drinks here weren’t cheap. Between them and the burger he was going to be out thirty-five bucks.
He was down to the ice in drink number three when she and her friends stood. He watched as they slithered between tables to the front door. You kidding me? Brian was a little drunker than he expected after three greyhounds. This bartender must pour with a heavy hand. She held the door for her friends. They walked out one by one. When they were gone she looked at him—and followed them out.
Dammit. He wasn’t sure why he cared, but he did.
The door opened and back she came.
Lucky for him, the crowd was heavy. He had time to put his face together, lose the surprised look. She pushed her way into the corner.
“Sit.” He gave up the stool. She hesitated, sat. Now she was looking up at him. A minor win.
“Time for your name.”
“Brian.”
“Rebecca.” They shook hands, formally, ironically. “You lied. You said your name was exciting.” She was a little drunk too, her eyes not as fierce as
they’d been.
“In certain cultures.”
“You thought I was gone.” She had a Boston-type accent, he heard now. Gahn.
“I thought of nothing but my delicious burger.” Thrust and parry, thrust and parry.
“Your kind needs to get taken down a notch.”
“My kind?” But he thought of Amanda, zipping up her jacket and stumbling out of his apartment that morning. Call me, she’d said. Then, as she shut the door, You’re not going to call me, are you. It wasn’t a question.
“Think you’re God’s gift to the ladies.”
The natural response would have been shocked denial. Instead he nodded, What if I do? What if I am?
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“Enough drinks. Let’s go somewhere we can actually talk.”
* * *
They found themselves in a tired all-night diner at the east end of Main Street. Not far from Brian’s apartment, as it happened, though he’d already decided he wasn’t going to mention that fact. The vents blew stale, warm air and the old-school jukeboxes at the tables were heavy on gospel.
“Think I can risk a cheeseburger?” she said.
He pulled a quarter from his pocket. “If you play ‘Amazing Grace’ first.”
She went with the cheeseburger. He ordered a chocolate-and-vanilla shake. Because he wanted one and because he thought it would make him look a little softer, less of a player. Of course thinking that way proved that he was a player, but so be it.
She told him she was a law student, but she sounded almost embarrassed.
“You like it? Law school?”
“The last refuge of the boring upper middle class. I mean, that and med school, but at least doctors help people.”
“When they’re not playing grab-ass with the nurses.”
“Somebody’s a cynic.”
“If you’re not a cynic you’re not paying attention.”
He wondered if he’d gone too far, but she laughed.
She was from Massachusetts. Didn’t know what to make of Virginia. “It’s funny down here, especially for a woman. They don’t want you to be too smart.”
“Even in law school?”
“Especially in law school. Sometimes it’s obvious. There’s one professor, married, kids, big name. Three days after I got here I heard about him, the girl grapevine. Make sure his office door is open if you go in. Don’t ever ever meet with him after hours or have a drink with him. Like, maybe he wouldn’t actually rape you, but he’d definitely get handsy and hope for more.”
“The girl grapevine? Is that a thing?”
“Definitely a thing. Not always bad, though.”
Brian thought of the way he’d worked through half his apartment building in Seattle. “So one bad apple.”
She laughed. “He wasn’t the only one. Plus, these bow-tied lions of the South”—liaaans of the Saawth, she exaggerated the accent—“guys who were old twenty years ago, they think they’re doing us a favor when they ask us the easy questions and give the men the tough ones. They think we’re all here hoping to meet guys, get our Mrs. degrees.”
“You’re not?”
She slapped his hand, not quite playfully, a warning. “What about you? You like it?”
“Down here? I mean, it does feel different. Sometimes I think I’m not in on the joke, sometimes I think they’re not.”
“You really this polite, or is there some body-snatcher thing happening?”
“Exactly. Also, there’s some weird black-white calculus going on all the time that only people born down here can follow. Like, they call the Civil War the War of—”
“Northern Aggression.” Rebecca laughed. “I didn’t believe it when I heard that the first time.”
“They’re not totally kidding when they say that.”
“They’re not kidding at all.”
“Then again, it’s beautiful and people do seem more relaxed.”
“You mean the girls are easy.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I see them in the bars, Oh Trev, not another shot, Ahhm so drunk, Ah don’t know what I’ll do. What if my skirt just falls right off?”
“Trev and Trip—”
“And Thurston.”
“Come on.”
“Truth, my class has a Thurston. Thurston Randall Jr. I swear. He’s like Virginia gentry, he has the most perfect blond hair. Whenever I see him I think he belongs on a horse. In a Polo ad. In Massachusetts I’d be sure he was gay, but down here I don’t think so. He’s just bred.”
“So you don’t like it?”
“Yet in some weird way I do. Like you can complain everyone is so polite, but what’s wrong with that? Boston, somebody knocks you over on the street and then yells, F you, outta my way. Folks in Southie will stab each other for the last chocolate frosted at Dunkin’.”
“Southie?”
“South Boston. Yeah, everybody hates everybody in Boston.”
* * *
The waitress, who was somewhere between middle-aged and you really shouldn’t spend so much time on your feet, cleared out her plate. “Dessert?”
“Apple pie?” Rebecca said.
The waitress tilted her head, a slight but definite negation.
“Pecan?”
“Great choice. Coffee, hons?”
They nodded and she tottered off.
“Wonder what’s wrong with the apple pie,” Brian said.
“You caught that too.”
“Oh yeah, she did not want you going near it.”
They grinned at each other. Hey, you’re all right.
When the bill came, she insisted on splitting it. Brian was smart enough not to argue. Or maybe not. He noticed the slightest hesitation when he agreed and she reached for her bag. Maybe living down here had gotten her used to freebies from the guys.
“Next time I’m paying,” he said.
Which, honestly, was a little ridiculous. She must have way more money than he did. She was the one in law school. But whatever.
Still, they had a good night. Not just a good night, a nice night, and nice wasn’t usually a word Brian used for his dates. He almost wanted to ask her back to his apartment. He made himself wait. Not because he was sure she would say no. Because he didn’t want her to say yes. He wanted to have to work for this one. An unexpected feeling.
Instead he put his hands to her face, kissed her once, and asked for her number. She gave it to him but didn’t ask for his—If you want me, you’ll have to call.
* * *
For their second date they went to a hibachi restaurant. Brian had been there before. It was fun, watching the guys in the white hats toss the steak in the air, slice it when it hit the grill. Entertaining. He would have gone there more. But he’d learned the hard way that if you showed up at the same restaurant with too many different dates the waiters made cracks. Anyway, the place was busy. The guys behind the counter gave them the big bow and the Hai! greeting and clanked their knives.
Rebecca looked a little thrown.
“Ever done hibachi before?” he said.
“I’m more into sushi.”
“Yeah?” He’d never tried sushi.
“I’m always kinda suspicious of restaurants where they give you a big show when you walk in. Like they’re trying to distract you from the food.”
“Never thought of it that way.”
Those were the things you knew when you’d grown up going to lots of restaurants, he realized. He’d never been so conscious of class before. Not because Rebecca was super-rich, she wasn’t. At least Brian didn’t think so. But she had that combination of education and money that was more intimidating than money all by itself. He had a way easier time thinking about having a million dollars than going someplace like Harvard. The Ivy League. Rich was just about money. The other was about a whole way of looking at the world. Of being a snob without trying to be. He could see that Rebecca had that gift.
If gift was t
he word.
The knowledge of the gap between them intimidated him a little. Turned him on, too. Maybe he’d been looking for a woman like her without even knowing it.
Or maybe he was full of it and trying to psych himself up to pay eighty bucks for dinner when she’d basically told him the place sucked.
“You okay with this—”
“Of course, totally.”
They sat side by side at the counter, watching the chefs slice and dice. Even before the food came they finished a beer and she loosened up. He got her talking about her family. She had a relationship with her parents that Brian couldn’t even imagine. She talked about them like they were her friends. Not like they were perfect. She said they were ridiculous at times. Her mom thought documentary films actually mattered and her dad barely knew how to shovel snow, which was weird considering that his brother—her uncle Ned—was a cop, a genuine tough guy. But she liked them.
“You’d tell them if you had a problem? A real one.”
“Of course. They’d probably give me terrible advice though. You wouldn’t tell yours? Because they’d judge you?”
“Judge me, hah. Eff them.” He saw her surprise. He’d been more honest than he’d meant to be. He tried to walk it back. “It’s just, we don’t have much in common.”
He didn’t want to think about his parents. He wanted to think about Rebecca. He leaned close, kissed her. No warning. She hesitated, then gave in, kissed back, open-lipped, soft. Their mouths gentle but his hand tight in her hair and her fingers digging into his arm.
Finally they broke off. Stared at each other, the restaurant disappearing into the ether.
“That was unexpected,” she said, finally. She looked behind the counter, where the chefs had taken a break from cooking to check them out. “Gentlemen? Our food?”
“Hungry?”
“I’ve acquired an appetite, yes.”
* * *
Toward the end of dinner Rebecca told him how she’d played the piano growing up, played a lot. More proof she’d grown up with money. But the way she talked about it she’d taken it seriously.
“Why’d you quit?”
The Power Couple Page 20
