Danny slowly rubs my stomach through the blanket. “Come back to bed.”
“Come BACK to bed?” I repeat incredulously. Then I try to figure out how to shimmy into my underwear while keeping the blanket completely covering me. “Oh, no, no, no.”
I watch his sheet slip down below his hip as he says to me, “You know, you can put your underwear on in front of me. I have already seen you naked.”
“That was at night,” I say, a bundle of nerves as I try to slip my underwear over my feet without dropping the blanket. “Plus, I was drunk.”
I manage to get my underwear completely on before Danny slowly (and sexily) pulls me back into the bed. He kisses my neck for a moment. Which I will admit feels ridiculously excellent. “You didn’t drink much,” he points out.
I try to push him off of my neck. I need to get out of here. “I was drunk on power and intoxicated by your beauty.”
“Intoxicated by my beauty?” Danny repeats.
I continue, “I needed to know that I could talk someone out of my league into wanting me. I have. Now I need to leave.”
Danny moves his left arm over me, straddling himself slightly on top of me. He smiles. “So … what made you pick me?”
I do give in a little by leaning back. I’m tempted just to do it with him one more time, then leave.
But, instead, I sigh loudly. “Oh please—I’m embarrassed enough without the Monday Morning Quarterback.”
“The what?”
“The Monday … Don’t you watch football?”
“Nah. I’d rather play sports than watch them,” he tells me seductively. He takes my hand and kisses my palm ever so lightly. Then he begins moving his lips up my arm. I could get used to this if I didn’t think he’d be dumping me later today. “Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask.
“No,” he mumbles while his hot breath caresses my neck. “Why? Do you have a boyfriend?”
Danny begins licking my neck as I try to continue my sentence. I take a deep breath and try to forget the hormones coursing through my body. Or the fact that I’m suddenly remembering how last night he was very … Um, what’s a polite way to say this?… how adept he was in the boudoir.
“Why would I be with you if I had a boyfriend? What kind of girl do you think I am?”
Before he can speak, I say, “Don’t answer that. I’m the type of girl who picks up random boys in bars. Oh God, I’m someone I hate.”
Danny stops kissing me. He looks me in the eye. “Are you going to relax at all?”
“Not until you dump me. No.”
He looks away, then blinks several times. My comments seem to inspire blinking in him. It’s not something I’m proud of, but he’s not the first.
Danny stands up and gets out of bed. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. What’s your idea of a perfect outing on a Sunday?”
“What? I have to pick what we’re doing? It’s not enough that I asked you out last night…”
“Asked me out? Is that what that was?” Danny jokes.
“Stop it. If we’re going to go on this date, which I’m not even sure is a good idea, I am not picking where we go. You need to make some decisions here.”
“Fine,” Danny says, sliding back into bed. “I choose bed day.”
He moves in for a kiss, but I crane my neck back, pulling away from him. “I do love the beach.”
Danny smiles to himself.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, climbing out of bed for the second time. “The beach it is. I have a brunch place I want to take you to first.” He turns to me. “Promise me one thing?”
“What?”
“At the end of the day, I am getting sex again, right?”
“Are you sure you want to?” I ask.
That makes Danny laugh. He takes my hand. “Come on, you goof.”
I let him lead me by the hand. “Where are we going?”
“Shower.”
“What?! Together?!” I ask.
“Yes. A shower together is the first step in the, quote, ‘protocol’ for the ‘morning after date.’ ”
“Are you making that up?”
“Well, since you’ve never had a morning after, you’ll never know, will you?”
I must admit, the hot shower relaxed me somewhat.
And, for now, I am liking this whole “morning after” thing.
Forty-two
Seema
This is weird.
He’s going to wake up, and everything’s going to be wrong.
Let the arm chewing commence. Or maybe not. Maybe this is the beginning of the rest of our lives. Maybe if I can just relax, and not overthink this thing, everything will turn out the way it’s supposed to.
I glance over at Scott.
And he’s … not there. The bed is empty.
I sit up. “Scott?”
Nothing. His loft is eerily quiet. “Scott?” I say again, a little louder.
No … he couldn’t have ditched me. He wouldn’t have made me feel totally abandoned on a morning when he knew I would need reassurance that what I did the night before was okay.
I get out of bed and head to the bathroom. “Scott?” I yell.
He did. He fucking left. Oh. My. Fucking. God. I don’t fucking believe he did this.
Shit. What the hell am I going to do? Clearly this should not have happened. It was a giant mistake.
In my head, I already know exactly how it’s going to go down. When he gets back, he’ll act like nothing happened last night: we were just a couple of friends who made a drunken mistake. No big deal. He’ll call me tonight and see me next Saturday at his show, where he’ll be sure to bring a date: a perfect ten, blond, big breasts, little waist, no brain. And he’ll treat the whole thing like it meant so little to him that I’ll want to stay in bed for a week, and not in the good way.
Or, worse, I’m going to get lectured. He’ll tell me that what he meant last night with all the “I love you because”s was really just that he loved me as a friend. I took it the wrong way, and therefore it’s all my fault that we’ve gone down this path.
I grab my matching bra and panty ensemble, then his WE HAVE COOKIES T-shirt and sweats from the floor, and quickly throw them on. Then I grab my purse, minidress, and shoes, and head out the door.
I’m already on the 101 freeway when Scott calls. I click on my Bluetooth, “Yeah.”
“Where the Hell are you?” Scott asks me (seemingly in confusion).
“I’m driving home,” I tell him angrily. “Where the Hell were you?”
“Picking up croissants. I was only gone for fifteen minutes.”
Oh, I fucking hate it when he lies about time like that. “I’ve been on the road for fifteen minutes,” I point out. “You were gone for at least forty-five.”
“No I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were! And, by the way, very classy abandoning me after our first night together.”
Scott gets very quiet. “Seema, don’t do this,” he warns me quietly.
“Don’t do what?”
“Act how you’re going to act. Just please, for one God damn day, can you act like a normal person?”
“Act like a normal person,” I repeat angrily. “I see, because I’m being so abnormal.”
“Actually, in this case, you’re being crazy,” Scott clarifies. “As in ‘girl the next morning who has all these thoughts in her head of what she’s expecting of me now that we’ve had sex and there’s no way I can live up to it, so I get to be the bad guy, bat shit’ crazy.”
“Wow,” I say dryly. “Bat shit crazy. Nice. So not only do you make me feel bad about myself when I’m not sleeping with you, apparently I get to feel even worse about myself now that I am. Perfect. I’m hanging up on you now.”
“Oh for God’s sake, I knew you would pull this!” Scott explodes. “I knew it! We should have never slept together!”
“Agreed!” I yell back.
“I knew you’d say that!” I spit out.
“Oh, you did, did you?” Scott answers back sarcastically.
“Yeah. It’s why I’m not surprised you snuck out on me this morning, and why I needed to get out of there.”
“I snuck out to buy you breakfast!” Scott yells in exasperation. “I never would have bailed on you.”
“You just did. Because you thought I was going to be bat shit crazy this morning.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It most certainly is.”
“No. I said please don’t act bat shit crazy.”
“I’m sorry. And the difference is?”
“Well, apparently, there’s no difference, because you’re acting exactly like I thought you’d act!”
He may have a point (sort of), but now I can’t figure out a way out of this fight. I go with a soft (yet begrudging), “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Scott says, his voice softening a bit as well. “I should have known when you kissed me that we would—”
“There it is again!” I interrupt. “I kissed you first. What kind of passive-aggressive Los Angeles single-male bullshit is that?! You started it with your whole ‘I love you because,’ and if you really felt that way, you should have had the balls to kiss me a long time ago.”
“Why? So we could be at this moment earlier in our relationship?” he asks dryly.
“I’m gonna go,” I say angrily.
“Wait,” Scott says. “Why don’t you come back, and we’ll have breakfast?”
I know that’s a bad idea. I should quit while I’m behind. Nothing good is going to come from the next hour.
But I can’t help myself—I desperately want this to work out. “Okay,” I say.
So I come back, and we head out to brunch at a funky little downtown diner that under normal circumstances makes me happy to be alive and in the company of bacon.
Only we don’t talk. Instead, we avoid each other’s glances, and stare at other people in the room. I can’t eat—I think I ate two bites of bacon before my stomach rebelled.
Scott asks me several times if there is anything wrong with the food. I say no. Other than that, there is no talking. Just awkward postfriendship silence.
When we get back to his building, he doesn’t ask me up. Hoping to find a way to salvage this, I decide maybe a little time and distance could do the trick. “So I should let you work,” I tell him as he puts his key in the lobby door.
Scott looks beaten down. “Probably a good idea.”
“All right,” I say awkwardly. “So, um, can I call you?”
Scott shrugs. “Sure.”
I nod. “Okay then,” I say, and I turn to head back to my car.
As I beep the alarm, Scott asks, “So does that mean I don’t call you? Or is this girl talk for ‘You better call me’? What?”
I think about the question. It’s a fair question. “Um … this is uncharted territory, one of us should call when we know what we want to happen next I’ll call you,” I tell him.
Scott nods grimly. “Fair enough.”
I get into my car, and we wave good-bye to each other.
When my car comes to the first red light, I burst into tears.
This isn’t what I thought would happen. It’s even worse. It’s bad when everyone is yelling. But when no one has anything left to say, it’s over.
Forty-three
Mel
Danny is laughing aloud as I continue my story, “So then I end up answering, ‘Pi. 3.14159265.’ ”
As Danny continues laughing, I say, “Okay. Your turn. What’s the worst question you’ve ever been asked on a blind date?”
“ ‘Have you ever been with a man?’ ” Danny says without hesitation.
“Oh God! How did you answer?”
He gives me a look like I should know the answer. Then he tells me, “I said, ‘No. Although I will concede that if Bono serenaded me, I might at least let him get to first.’ ”
“Ew!”
“Yeah, she didn’t think it was funny either. I was kidding. I have no desire to be with a man.”
“Not that! You like Bono? Ew! What is it with guys and the man-crush on Bono? His voice sounds like a cat in heat scratching up against a chalkboard.”
“Okay, you know what? You’re wearing a Spice Girls T-shirt. You can say nothing.”
This is true—I am wearing my old Spice Girls T-shirt. Nicole insisted we not dress up at all last night, that we not put out any effort whatsoever before we went out. Nothing says “No effort” quite like a Spice Girls T-shirt.
Danny has taken me to Santa Monica, where we plan to spend the day at the beach. But first, he brings me to a brunch place on Main Street, where the omelettes are huge and the coffee is excellent.
“So, is Spice Girls your favorite group?” he asks me.
“No,” I say as I take a big bite of ham and cheddar goodness. “Although if they were an all-male group, they could be, and I wouldn’t have to be embarrassed telling men I like their music.”
“What? Is this another one of your theories on dating?”
“No. I just have a theory that bad music by women disappears over time, yet bad music by men seems to stay with us forever,” I say, taking a bite of hash browns.
“Not true.”
“Please. Otherwise, why do men still listen to Sir Mix-A-Lot?”
“Because we like big butts, and we cannot lie.”
I laugh, surprised at his sudden singing rendition.
“Oh, I got another bad first date question!” I say, snapping my fingers. “How many people have you slept with?”
“Yeah. See, as a guy, I would never answer that. I can’t win.”
“You can’t win? Try being a girl. If you answer ‘Three,’ to some men that means you’re just some innocent who’s lousy in bed. Yet fifty percent of women in this country have only been with one or two men, which means statistically you’re a slut.”
Danny smiles. “So, you’ve been with three?”
“I didn’t say that,” I respond quickly.
Although in reality, yes, it’s three. Wait, no, I guess now it’s four.
Danny continues to smile. “You didn’t have to.” He has a sip of coffee and says, “If I were to admit to seventeen I’d be in trouble one way or another, too.”
Gulp.
“I’m at four,” I blurt out, then take a nervous sip of my coffee.
Danny smiles at me, looking positively charmed. “I think four’s the perfect number.”
I smile back, surprised by his acceptance. It’s been so long since I wasn’t defensive about my choices in life. It’s nice to be able to blurt out something about myself and not have the man look at me with quiet disapproval.
“Oh! I just thought of another bad question,” I say to Danny. “How come you’re still single?”
“Oh, now, see, I don’t think asking a girl that is so bad.”
“Sure it is. It’s another way of saying ‘What the Hell is wrong with you that no one wants you?’ ”
“Huh,” Danny says, considering my statement as he takes a bite of eggs Benedict. “As a guy, I don’t see it that way. I see the question more as an incredulous, ‘What the Hell is wrong with the last guy that he let her get away?’ ”
“Really?” I ask him dubiously. “Why are you still single?”
Danny pauses.
“Hah!” I say, pointing to him. “See? Sucks, doesn’t it?”
“You know what? I’m being silly not wanting to tell you. I broke up with my girlfriend because I wasn’t in love with her. She was great, and I loved her, but she wasn’t who I was supposed to be with. So we broke up.”
I shake my head. “Man, I wish I could give a breakup speech like that. So cool, so loving, so nonjudgmental. Plus you get to be the windshield.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You know. Someti
mes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug. I was the bug.”
“So, what happened? Why are you single?”
I take a deep breath. I don’t want to admit this. Not to a guy I’m trying to impress. But here it goes. “He was cheating on me.”
I watch Danny watch me, which is making me self-conscious.
“What?”
“He was an idiot.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe if you dated me for six years, you’d cheat on me too.”
Danny shakes his head slowly. “No. He was an idiot.”
As I open my mouth to say something else self-deprecating, Danny leans in and kisses me.
It’s such a sweet kiss. We begin to make out a bit.
Maybe this chili pepper was onto something.
“Didn’t take you long to bounce back, did it?” I hear a voice say bitterly.
I break the kiss and look up to see Fred, standing at our table, by himself. “Fred! What are you doing here?”
“Having brunch and watching you make a spectacle of yourself.” He glances briefly at Danny, then asks me, “So who’s this?”
“Fred, this is Danny. Danny, this is my ex-boyfriend, Fred.”
Danny stays cool and pleasant, even putting out his hand. “Nice to meet you, man.”
Fred glares at the extended hand, then turns to me. “So while I’m proposing marriage and wanting us to spend the rest of our lives together, you had this asshole just waiting in the wings.”
Danny starts to stand up. “Dude, there’s no call for that—”
But before Danny can stand up, I’m already on my feet screaming at Fred. “Are you out of your fucking mind?! You cheated on me with not one but like, twelve HUNDRED women, and you’re going to try and turn this around on me?!”
Fred gives me the same condescending look that he gives me every time we have a fight. Like I’m the crazy one, and he’ll indulge me in my little fantasies, but that, truly, this is beneath him. There’s a patronizing tone of voice that goes with the look, and I hear it now as he says to me, “Oh, please, I made one mistake…”
“One mist…” I turn to Danny. “This is the idiot,” I say, angrily thrusting my thumb in Fred’s direction. “This is the one who dumped me.”
Danny, now standing, puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I know. And he’s not worth it. Let’s get out of here.”
There's Cake in My Future Page 26
