The Reason for Me

by Prescott Lane

  What? Have I been out of the dating scene for so long that I forgot how to read cues from men? The disappointment tightens in my chest. “Why do you hate Halloween?” I ask.

  He turns back towards me, his posture stiff, but his eyes are blank as he turns the tables on me, totally dodging my question. “Why do you?”

  “It’s my wedding anniversary,” I say softly.

  “You’re married?”

  “No, Logan is . . . I mean, I’m . . .” I hate the word. I hate it every single time I have to say it. It seems unnatural. This isn’t the way life is supposed to be. “A widow.” He stares at me for a minute. It’s strange. Usually people say something standard and polite like “sorry for your loss.” But he is just looking at me, deeply. Only someone who’s suffered can recognize the darkness in another person’s soul. The only way I can explain it is like in the Harry Potter movie. I don’t remember which one—Order of the Phoenix, I think. Luna and Harry are the only ones that can see the Thestral because they are the only ones that have seen death. It’s like that. His soul is sensing the darkness in me, causing chills to cover my pale skin.

  “That fucking sucks,” he says.

  He’s nailed it right on the head. It’s the most honest response anyone had ever given me. “Yes, it fucking does.”

  He laughs. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh, and I can tell he doesn’t do it very often. He stops pretty quickly, seemingly uncomfortable with that momentary loss of control. He glances at his house then back to me. “I only sleepwalk if I take something to help me sleep. Damn Ambien. I’m sorry,” he says.

  “Maybe try warm milk instead.”

  He grins a little. “I only take them a couple times a year, when I know I won’t be able to sleep.”

  “Do you remember everything about last night?”

  “You don’t do small talk, do you?”

  “Not if I don’t have to. Life’s too short to waste breath on meaningless words,” I say.

  “Well, I make small talk all day long.”

  “Maybe don’t do that,” I say, grinning at him. “I mean, small talk doesn’t help the stirrups.”

  He laughs again, sticks his hands in his pockets, and starts to walk. He looks back at me—an indication he wants me to walk with him. “Silence would be better?” he asks.

  I bite the corner of my mouth, hoping I can remember how to flirt, or at least not look like a complete idiot. “No, maybe some romantic music and candlelight.”

  The smile on his face keeps getting bigger, and he says, “Maybe some roses or candy.”

  “Absolutely, I mean it’s a little bit like getting whammed-bammed-thank-you-ma’amed.”

  “It’s that terrible?” he asks.

  “No, but that’s why I see a female doctor.”

  “Hmm, suspicious of male gynecologists?”

  “Well, come on. I mean, why, of all the specialties, would you choose that one?” I ask.

  He stops walking and looks down at me, the tone of his voice becoming very serious. “Maybe because I want to help women?”

  “Okay, but maybe you could invent better gowns than those little tissue ones you make us wear.”

  “I’ll work on that. So what do you do?” he asks.

  I tell him about my writing, the traveling, typical get-to-know-you stuff.

  “Working on anything now?”

  I debate telling him about the blog. There is a lot of personal information on it, and I’m not sure I’d want him to read it. I don’t even let Meg read it. It’s weird. I have no problem sharing it with strangers, but I’m not sure I want Holt to know all my intimate thoughts. “I do a lot of freelance stuff for magazines, so I’m not traveling much anymore. I also started a blog. You don’t make a lot of money off a blog, but it’s doing well.”

  “What’s the blog called?” he asks.

  “If I tell you, you can’t read it.”

  “Okay.”

  He didn’t have to agree so quickly. I want him to be at least a little interested. “The Dirty Truth.” I swear, he just smirked. “And no, it’s not dirty in that kind of way.”

  He laughs out loud. He is completely devastating when he smiles and laughs. His normal brooding look is hot, but the smile is even better. Especially because I suspect it’s reserved for a select few.

  “I guess I’m just a cliché—perverted male gyno,” he says.

  “So you know how you get Christmas letters from people, and it’s all happy and fake, and everything is wonderful?” I ask.

  “Yeah, hate those,” he says.

  “Me, too. I’d never sent a Christmas letter, but if I did, it would be the good, bad, and ugly. So I thought, why not start a blog that does that?”

  “So now, I want to read it,” he says.

  “What? You said you wouldn’t.”

  “It’s a blog, right? So things are categorized by date. Give me a date, and that’s the one I’ll read. I’ll only read the dates you tell me I can.”

  There’s dozens I could let him read. Some blog posts stick out in my mind more than others. Those are the ones I tend to remember the dates of, and I’m not sure I want him reading those yet. “You can read today’s,” I say. “It’s titled ‘My Trip to the Pussy Mechanic.’”

  His mouth drops open. “It is not?”

  I just shrug. “It’s the dirty truth.”

  The Dirty Truth Blog

  November 1

  My Trip to the Pussy Mechanic

  Usually when you go to the doctor, you don’t give it much thought. But going to the gynecologist requires a lot of prep work. There is the shaving of everything, the washing of every square inch of your body. And for what? To get there and wait. And wait. And wait.

  They tell you to empty your bladder, but by the time the doctor comes in, you’ve got to pee again. So you finally make it back to the exam room, only to be asked a series of questions that start with, “When was your last period?” Is it just me? But I can never remember, unless it’s a holiday or vacation. Then it’s a guarantee that my little “friend” will visit. The nurse leaves, and it’s time to strip down. Okay, Groinologists around the world—listen up! Please get rid of the damn fluorescent light bulbs. They are not friends of any woman. And make a note that you should have a place to hang our clothes. I can’t be the only one that folds up my undies and puts them under all my other clothes or stuffs them in my purse. Heaven forbid the gyno see my panties!

  Donning my pretty little paper gown, I take a seat to wait some more, cursing that I didn’t wear socks, because apparently the pussy mechanic likes subzero degree temperatures. Which brings me to one of my biggest complaints—for goodness sake, warm up your hands before the damn fingerblast into my girl parts! Seriously, are you mining for gold down there or what? And just so you know—yeah, it does hurt. No need to ever ask that question again. And quit telling us to “relax” – you try to relax with your legs flayed open and a big shiny silver speculum ready at your entrance. This is as relaxed as it gets!

  But my appointment today didn’t even get that far. Get this—my new pussy mechanic turned out to be the stranger I kissed last night. Remember I posted about him earlier? The first time I randomly kiss a stranger and look what happens. The dating gods are against me. What happens when your random hook-up turns out to be your new gynecologist? Stay tuned!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ANNALYSE

  Every writer I know tends to be a night owl—less distractions, I guess. Also, you tend to lose inhibitions at night. Ever notice that? Sex is dirtier at night. You find yourself saying and doing things you’d never do in the harsh light of day. If you want to be a good writer, it’s got to be the same way—dirty.

  Good thing I wrote the pussy mechanic piece during the day, Lord knows what I would’ve said. Still, I probably shouldn’t have told Holt to read that one. Why did I have to end it that way? Wonder if he read it? Wonder if he’s pissed he’s in it? I open up my laptop, and an email from him pops right
up. I’ve got a contact email on the blog, so it’s easy enough to find me.

  Holt: Just finished my assignment to read today’s blog. You are very talented.

  I bust out laughing. He signed it The pussy mechanic, MD. and left me his phone number. Didn’t peg him for a jokester or a flirt. And I haven’t flirted in half a decade. We are quite the pair. My nighttime bravery is kicking in and I grab my cell to text him. Here goes nothing! Cracking my knuckles, my finger hovers over my phone’s keypad.

  Me: Dear perverted male gyno. So glad you can appreciate the humor in having a six-inch long speculum spread my private parts wide open. Now I’m really suspicious of your chosen profession.

  I wonder if he’s still awake? I don’t have to wonder long.

  Holt: Six inches??? Hmmm!

  Holy crap! This kind of flirting is way above my pay grade. So far out of my wheelhouse, I’m in a serious mind fuck. My cell dings with a text.

  Holt: Despite what you might think, being a gynecologist is not a sexual thing. I don’t examine a woman and think about burying myself in her pussy. It just doesn’t happen. I am a man, though: I can appreciate a nice body, but it’s work. I’m thinking about feeling for cancer lumps, not motor boating.

  The male brain is a confusing place. Society teaches women that men think about one thing and one thing only, that they are ruled by their cocks. Most middle of the night communications with guys would be a booty call, but Holt and I have been texting each other for over four hours now and aside from some flirting, he’s been a complete gentleman. And I’m not sure how I feel about that. It feels nice to have the attention of a man again, but at the same time, there are things about me, my past, that will make it impossible for me to ever have the kind of relationship I want. If Holt’s looking for someone to spend his life with, have children with, he’s wasting his time on me. I can’t give another man that. I’m probably thinking too far ahead. Maybe it’s best to nip this in the bud. Why start something I can’t finish? I’ll just hurt us both. So, I type.

  Me: It’s getting late. I better shut it down for the night.

  Holt: How about another date?

  Date? He wants a date? I chew on my bottom lip, my eyes looking in the direction of his house. Now, unless I have developed X-ray vision, there is no way I’m going to see him. This is so different for me. Feeling flirty, I quickly type back.

  Me: When was our first date?

  My eyes stay glued to the phone screen. I must refresh it a hundred times. Nothing is coming back. He’s not responding. I reread our exchanges. Holy crap! He wasn’t asking me out on a date! He was asking for another blog date to read. That’s it! It’s confirmed! I am a social moron.

  I have to make this right. I don’t want any more weird moments with him. Even as I walk across our yards in the pitch darkness, I know I’m making a mistake, but I can’t help myself. When I’m wrong, I apologize. Stepping onto his patio, I lift my hand to the door, but it just hovers there, unable to knock. Instead, I dance around on his back patio for a minute, debating. Why didn’t I at least put some real clothes on? I’m in my pajamas and Uggs, for goodness sake. The patio light flicks on. Now I’m busted. He’s seen me.

  “Annalyse,” he says, opening up the door and running his hand through his messy hair.

  My mouth starts moving like I’m in rapid-fire mode on one of those shoot ’em up video games. “Okay, so I guess it’s my turn to be embarrassed. I mean, you weren’t asking me out. Of course, you weren’t asking me out. You were talking about the blog. You were asking for another blog date, not a date date. God, I’m mortified. I mean, I’m sorry.” If we were in a movie, this would be the part where he kisses me to shut me up. Too bad, this is real life.

  “I don’t date,” he says.

  My jaw hits the floor, and my hand flies to my hip. “That’s it? I mean, I’m making a fool of myself here, and that’s all you’ve got? Well, I don’t date, either.”

  “So let’s not date,” he says, walking towards me, his stride pinning me against his back door.

  I have to be reading him right this time. He’s obviously attracted to me. His eyes are locked on me like I’m his favorite dessert, wanting to devour me. But he backs away and disappears back inside, leaving me standing there like I’m waiting for a taxi in the rain—wet and frustrated.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HOLT

  I’ve got no problem getting out of bed this morning. When I wasn’t ravaged by damn dreams, I was awake, consumed with Annalyse.

  Yep, she’s real.

  Yesterday morning, I thought she was just a dream, a figment of my imagination, quite possibly my psyche giving me a little something good to hope for. A few hours later, I find her sitting up on my exam table. Complete mind fuck.

  And all through the day yesterday, bits and pieces of the night before came back—her fingertips closing my eyes, her sweet voice, and those pink, full lips, so warm. I haven’t kissed a woman in over five years. Clearly, the sleeping pill made me lose control. And thank the Lord for that. Only now, I can’t stop thinking about her.

  And that’s the real bitch. You can’t un-know something. I can’t un-know the softness of her lips, her taste, the feel of her body, the blue color of her eyes, her kiss.

  That kiss.

  The kind of kiss that starts on the lips and ends up on her neck while she moans, her body limp in your hands. The kind of kiss that lets you know what’s happening is serious in the best kind of way. The kind of kiss that makes your heart beat wildly, your mind go blank, and your dick throb all at the same time. The kind of kiss that makes you never want to kiss another woman again. That kiss. The kiss that starts it all.

  Five years of fasting, denying, starving goes out the window with one little taste of her. All the control I thought I had goes up in smoke with one swipe of her tongue.

  The energy between us is overwhelming. There’s a connection. I feel it. It’s beyond my dick craving her. She fucking sees me, sees through the bullshit happy facade I put on every day. I’m not sure I can deny the pull I feel to her, or that I completely want to.

  I see dozens and dozens of women every day. Pussy and tits are my job, so I thought I was immune to them by now. It’s been so easy not to get involved, because attached to the pretty package of a woman’s body is a heart and soul and mind that want to know my heart and soul and mind. That’s the thing about women—they feel. And for a man who’s tried not to feel anything for five years, that’s fucking dangerous.

  In fact, there’s nothing more dangerous to a man than a woman. They have the power to destroy. We’ve got bombs, guns, fists, all kinds of weapons of mass destruction, but there isn’t a single thing that can destroy a man faster than a woman. History is full of these examples going all the way back to the Bible, Adam and Eve. It’s like men see the pussy, and we’re dumbstruck. Hundreds of years of history and evolution, and I swear we haven’t changed at all. In our hearts, we’re all tempted by the fruit. Doesn’t matter that we’ve seen it all before, doesn’t matter that we’ve tasted it before, doesn’t matter that there are other pleasures in the garden. Nope, when the right pussy comes along, we become idiots. We’ll do stupid things in her honor, write songs and poems, commit murder, wage war—anything to protect her.

  And a small talk hating beauty with a curvy little body living next door isn’t just dangerous—she’s lethal, armed and ready to destroy the walls I’ve so carefully built.

  *

  ANNALYSE

  Opening up the garage door, the rush of cold air hits me. Clearly, it’s not warm enough to do this right now, but I need to feel close to Logan today. And the best way to do that is to hop on his Harley. I used to love to hold onto him as he tried to scare the piss out of me, accelerating around a curve. The bike is the one thing of his that I couldn’t bear to part with. I don’t ride it often, and I certainly don’t ride like he did. Still, it helps me feel close to him.

  And I need that today. Last night with Holt made m
e feel terrible. The moment I feel like I’m ready to date or have sex or just stop pretending the opposite sex doesn’t exist, the universe drops a damaged, closed-off man in my lap. What the hell? The man is hot one minute and cold the next. That is a combination I don’t need.

  Pushing the bike out of the garage and straddling it, I run my fingers across the bars and seat, lowering my head—hugging the bike is like hugging Logan. I close my eyes, remembering him teaching me how to ride. He was all about safety, making me put on gloves, boots, and a helmet. His hands would be on top of mine, showing me the brake, throttle, and clutch. His fingers running down my leg, showing me how to change gears. All his friends made fun of him for letting his girl drive his bike, but he didn’t care. He trusted me with the things he loved the most.

  I lift my head and slide my helmet on, fastening it, then my eyes catch Holt’s. He stops suddenly and marches towards me, looking pissed as hell. “What the hell is that?” he barks.

  “I’m going for a ride.”

  “You ride a Harley?”

  “It was Logan’s. He and his brother love motorcycles,” I say, not sure why I’m explaining myself. “He taught me how to ride.”

  “Off,” he says, motioning with his hand. “Off.”

  I slip off the helmet and ask, “Is something wrong?”

  He motions again. “You. On that thing. Get off.” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. How dare he? “Off!”

  “Please tell me you are sleepwalking again, because you have no right to order me to do anything.”

  “I’m wide awake. I just delivered twins.”

  Okay, so my heart melts, don’t shoot me. Twins? I want babies so badly, but . . . I can’t go there. That is a part of me that I haven’t come to terms with. Losing Logan and losing . . .

  “Did you hear me, Annalyse?” he says with concern in his voice. “I need you off that bike.”

  I hold his eyes as I slip my helmet back on. “You should read August 8th.”