Unzipped

by Lauren Blakely

  “No?” He mimes making a check mark. “No acting out the famous scene from When Harry Met Sally, and no discussion of orgasms. Not on any level, right? I mean, can we discuss the timing of orgasms? Minutes to climax? Those sorts of things?”

  I blush more. I can feel the color spread from my cheeks down my skin. “You’re trying to make me blush.”

  He smiles again, clearly pleased with himself. “Honestly, it’s adorable when you blush. I’ve never seen someone turn that shade of tomato before. Wait, no, it’s fire-engine red. Hold on, you’ve moved into beet territory.”

  That’s because we can’t seem to stop talking about sex. And there are some parts of sex that I’m bad at. So I try to cover it up by making jokes. But I can’t tell him that. I can’t tell him that I suck at X and Y but not Z.

  “Why are you blushing so much?” he presses. “Do you have something against orgasms?”

  “No,” I insist.

  “Do you dislike them?”

  “God, no.”

  “You do like them, then?”

  “Of course I like them. Everyone likes them.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Tom.” He’s pushing all my buttons, and I don’t know how to get him to stop. Nor do I understand how this train left the station and sped away from me.

  “I embarrassed you again,” he says, his voice soft and gentle.

  “Yes, because this isn’t what we’re supposed to talk about.”

  Because it’s making me squirm. Because I’m thinking about sex with you and I’m not supposed to.

  “Let’s talk about work. Do you want to hear more about how a thrill ride works?”

  “Yes,” I say, relieved.

  He leans forward. “Angle. It’s all about angle.”

  I wave the napkin. “I surrender.”

  When dinner arrives, I’m practically bouncing in my seat. I can’t wait to throw him this curveball and see if he can hit it.

  “Your sea bass, madam,” the waiter says, sliding the plate in front of me.

  He sets the ravioli in front of Tom, who raises his fork, ready to go. He gestures to my fish as the waiter leaves. “It’s the happiest fish, right?”

  I exhale heavily. “Hold on.” He lifts a brow in question. “Let’s say you’re on a date.”

  “Like we’re pretending to be.”

  “And the food arrives.” I gesture to the plates.

  “Like it has, and it looks good.”

  I raise a finger. “But there’s one thing you forgot to do.”

  He tilts his head, clearly perplexed.

  I drop my voice, imitating a man. “Oh hey, Cassandra, I forgot to ask before I ordered, but you’re not going to break out in hives from the fish, are you? Or wait. Are you, by chance, a vegetarian?”

  He groans an oh hell groan. “Is it door number one or door number two for my faux pas?”

  “It’s the ‘I don’t eat anything with a face’ door. I think Cassie might be a vegetarian too.”

  He puts down his fork, holds up his hands, and winks. “Don’t worry. I got this.” In a flash, he switches plates, sliding his dish across the table and taking mine. “How about them apples?”

  A smile stretches across my face. “Well done, Good Will Hunting.”

  “What can I say? I’m a problem solver.”

  “I’m seriously impressed with your quick save.”

  He blows on his fingertips. “Yeah, I’m not so terrible at this dating thing. Now, where were we?” he asks, as my fork dives into the ravioli and I take a bite. “Oh right, you were about to enjoy the best roasted corn ravioli in wine country, and I’m going to eat some happy fish.” He slices into his food, chews, and makes a Food Network host–style sound of appreciation. “Definitely the happiest fish ever.”

  “Also, this is amazing,” I say once I finish a mouthful.

  “See? I totally meant to do that.” He takes a drink of his wine, then slides his knife across the fish again. “Have you always been a vegetarian?”

  I shake my head. “I started in high school. My mom had a terrible diet.”

  “And you stopped eating meat because of that?”

  “I wanted to be healthier. And yes, I do indulge in ice cream and wine, but I figure if I keep the bulk of my meals on the lighter side, I’ll be better off. I’m not saying being a vegetarian is a hedge against health problems, and obviously I’m indulging in corn ravioli tonight, but in general, I try to eat differently than she did. She kept eating processed meat and pastries and drinking Frappuccinos right up until the end.”

  “Were you close to her?”

  I make a seesaw gesture. “In some ways, yes. In other ways, no. She never really understood my desire to write comedy. She wanted me to do something more practical. To write technical manuals or press releases. She worried that I’d never have a stable job.”

  “Do you think that’s true?”

  “Oh, it’s fairly accurate, but at the same time that’s the risk in my field, and I was willing to take it.”

  He nods thoughtfully as he chews. “Would you consider yourself a risk-taker?”

  I let that question rattle around before I answer. “I always wear a helmet when riding my bike, I don’t text and drive, and I try to limit my vices. But”—I lean closer—“I did go skydiving last year.”

  His eyes widen. “What was that like? I’ve always wanted to go but never have.”

  My eyes float shut briefly as I recall the summer day when Christine and I leaped from a plane. It was her birthday, and it had been on her bucket list. Her husband had refused to go, but she’d convinced me rather easily, not only luring me with the sheer thrill of it, but also with its creative powers—she said she’d bet it would inspire me to write a hilarious scene about skydiving.

  She was right. Falling from the sky was a total rush, and I wrote a skydiving scene into my show.

  I open my eyes. “Pure exhilaration.”

  “And a little bit of fear?”

  “Absolutely. That moment when you look out the door and the wind rushes by, and you can barely hear anything but the whoosh of your life roaring past you, and you ask yourself if you’re going to back down? That’s terrifying.”

  He pops a piece of fish in his mouth and chews. “And how do you get past that?”

  I shrug happily. “You give fear the middle finger.”

  He laughs. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you skydive.”

  “And when you’re falling, it’s the craziest, wildest, most thrilling thing you’ve ever done.”

  He sets down his fork with a flourish. “Now I have no choice. I have to go skydiving.”

  “You do. I dare you,” I say, challenging him.

  “All you have to say to a guy is ‘I dare you,’ and we’re pretty much doing it. What about you? Does ‘I dare you’ work on you?”

  “Try me.”

  He raises an eyebrow, pointing to his fish. “This is fantastic. I dare you to take a bite.”

  I chuckle. “You can’t dare me into eating fish. Again, I don’t eat anything that has a face.”

  He smirks. “I like to eat certain things that have faces.”

  My jaw drops. “You did not just make a joke about oral sex.”

  “It wasn’t a joke. I’m very serious,” he says, completely deadpan.

  And I’m completely off my game once more. He’s knocking me off-kilter, and I’m a fidgeting mess. I keep trying to reroute the night away from all the sex talk, because sex talk is the start of flirting, and flirting is the start of liking. That’s the real trouble.

  I’m not attracted to him, he’s not attracted to me, and he’s interested in someone else.

  But one of those things is a lie.

  I am attracted to him.

  But his heart belongs to someone else. After my last boyfriend ditched me because he was still in love with his ex, there’s no way I’m veering down that road again.

  “Tell me what your high school was lik
e,” I say, then pop in a piece of the ravioli.

  “The guys there were cool. We totally bonded.”

  Something clicks in my brain. “Did you go to an all-boys school?”

  “Yes.” His eyes gleam with excitement. “How did you know?”

  “My friend Christine. Her husband went to one, and she said you can tell guys who did because they resort to sex talk all the time. It’s like they were raised by wolves.”

  He points his fork at me. “You started the sex talk. Did you go to an all-girls school?’

  But I won’t let him distract me. I’m on a mission, and the puzzle pieces are clicking—he has three brothers, his mom died young, he attended an all-boys school. He hasn’t had a lot of female influences in his life. It truly is like he was raised by wolves. Since men are, well, wolfish.

  “Listen, have you had a serious girlfriend?”

  He looks down at his food like he doesn’t want to answer. “Here and there.”

  For a moment, I think he sounds embarrassed. “It’s no big deal if you haven’t,” I say gently.

  He raises his face, shrugging it off. “I’ve had a few somewhat serious girlfriends. Nothing to write home about though, and I’m cool with it. I’ve been pretty busy with work. I’ve dated though.”

  “But not that much?”

  He sets down his fork. “Look, even though my first time was in college with Cassie, I do know what women want. I know how to make a woman happy in bed.”

  I hold up my hands, the sign for backing off. “My first time was in college too. But, Tom, I wasn’t talking about horizontally.”

  “Then why are you asking?”

  “I’m saying you might need practice. Not at sex, but at how to be a boyfriend.”

  He scoffs. “I don’t need practice.”

  “You spent most of the meal trying to get me to blush. And, trust me, I like sex.”

  “You do?” he asks, and his gaze darkens.

  “I do, but I also don’t want to talk about sex on a first date.”

  He licks his lips, glances away, then turns back to me. “I promise no more sex talk. We can even practice that starting now.”

  We spend the rest of the meal talking about where we grew up—we are both California natives and therefore addicted to sunshine and avocados; favorite books—I devour celebrity memoirs, and he adores how-stuff-works stories; and the all-time best flavors for ice cream—we both adore anything with coconut.

  “Thanks for the practice, Finley. Let’s do it again,” he says as we leave.

  “I’m up for a round two.”

  Out on the main street, I say hello to Sandy Davidson, who owns Tren-day, a cute clothing shop next to the restaurant. “Hey, Sandy. How’s business?”

  The Jane Lynch look-alike smiles and waves. “Can’t complain. I’m outfitting all the coolest cats in wine country.” She glances at Tom. “If you ever need anything stylish, come see me. I have a shop here and one in our sister town of Lucky Falls. That one has even more of the hippest duds.”

  “I’ll be there,” he says.

  She turns down the street and walks the other way, and I look at Tom, my pulse skittering as our eyes seem to lock for the briefest of moments. “So . . .”

  “So . . .”

  “That was fun,” I say.

  “It was a lot of fun,” he adds, then drops a kiss to my cheek. It’s a chaste kiss. A mere brush of lips to skin. But there’s nothing chaste about my body’s reaction to it.

  I force myself to focus on the goal—to help him win back the girl, and in doing so, to help myself. To save my show. “More practice tomorrow?”

  He smiles in the lopsided way that threatens to weaken my knees again. “Tomorrow sounds good. Glad you liked the ravioli. I had a feeling you would.”

  I laugh as I ride my bike home.

  What tastes even better, though, is what I write into the episode that night.

  With a little help from his lady friend, the hero preps to meet the yoga queen. He says he wants to sing a song to her, but his lady friend promptly nixes that idea over dinner. At said meal, the hero tries to order for both of them.

  “Ordering for someone else is a deal breaker.”

  “It’s called chivalry.”

  “It’s called steamrolling.”

  “Steamrolling sounds vaguely dirty.”

  “Steamrolling sounds horrifically filthy.”

  They agree to never use the word steamrolling again. He segues to sex talk that sounds deliciously naughty, and they wind up talking about a million other things, like music and risks and friends. That feels dangerous to his lady friend—every path the conversation takes.

  I send the draft of the first episode to Bruce and cross my fingers that he’ll like it, then find a message on my phone from Tom.

  Seeing his name makes me feel giddy, so I tell my feelings to settle the hell down while I slide open the text.

  10

  Finley

  Tom: Since timing is everything, what time should I pick you up for tomorrow’s practice date?

  Finley: Seven is a perfect date time for dinner. But we’re not doing dinner. So five, please.

  Tom: Should I bring a snorkel?

  Finley: Why on earth would you bring a snorkel?

  Tom: You never know what risks we might be taking. It’s good to be prepared.

  Finley: I assure you, there is no risk of snorkeling in or around Hope Falls.

  Tom: Maybe a blowtorch, then? A bowling ball? A badminton racket?

  Finley: Do you think we’re going to weld, join a league, or engage in lawn sports?

  Tom: Fine, fine. Just surprise me. But just so you know, my badminton game is on fire.

  Finley: *makes note to challenge you to badminton soon* Also, you’re such a weirdo. :) P.S. Dress casually.

  Tom: I can do that. Also, I think it’s cool that you love roller coasters.

  Finley: I think it’s cool that you design them.

  Tom: You should ride one of mine sometime.

  Finley: Is this you trying to trick me into naughty talk again?

  Tom: No. I mean, maybe. That is going to be pretty hard for me to resist doing. But I’m serious. I’m ridiculously proud of my work, and seeing a thrill-seeker like yourself ride one would be a total high.

  Finley: I would love to ride your rides. And no, don’t go there!

  Tom: *engage resistance to sex talk mode*

  Finley: Do you have that mode?

  Tom: I do. I absolutely do. Also, I was thinking about what you said about timing and chasing laughs. Makes me realize we’re both pursuing the same prize in our jobs—that moment of elation.

  Finley: I like that description.

  Tom: It’s a good gig, isn’t it? Loving what you do?

  I smile as I settle onto the couch, enjoying the direction our texts have taken.

  Finley: Yes. I’m lucky I get to do this. I only hope I can keep doing it.

  Tom: Keep up the timing and you will. You make me laugh.

  Finley: I guess that’s helpful, since you don’t want to sleep with me.

  Tom: Your laughter keeps me totally focused on not sleeping with you.

  I want to tell him it’s the same for me. But that’d be a lie.

  11

  Tom

  “You’re doing it wrong.”

  I flip Nash the bird as I shave. “If I’m doing it wrong, it’s because you taught me wrong.”

  My brother points at me from his perch on the corner of my hotel bed, surrounded by bags of produce he picked up at the Sunday farmers market this morning for his restaurant, a few towns over from Hope Falls. “What have I told you? You need to shave in the opposite direction of the hair.”

  “Oh right. Of course. How did I ever forget that key detail?”

  “Just like I taught you.” His tone is notably evil, as it often is.

  I rinse off the stubble and shaving cream then bring the razor back to my jaw. “I know, jackass. You tried to trick
me into shaving the wrong way when I was fifteen.”

  Nash cackles, a familiar sound I’ve heard my whole life. “It worked though. You totally fell for it.” He runs a hand over his shiny skull. He says he’s bald by choice, and since he shaves his head nearly every day, I have no clue if his hair would grow in if he let it. But he likes the look and claims the ladies do too.

  “I was fifteen! I trusted you guys! And you were eighteen then.”

  He waves a hand dismissively as he roots around in his bags. “And look at your handsome face. Not a single nick. You’ll look so pretty when you see our cousin,” he says, since I’m grabbing a bite with our cousin Gabe before a quick meeting with a contractor. “Also, you didn’t actually get hurt the first time you shaved backward, so don’t cry wolf.”

  My lips curve up in a grin, thinking of Finley’s “raised by wolves” comment last night about guys who went to all-boys schools. The way she said it was cute—she shook her head, sort of bemused, her wild, curly hair moving back and forth, her lips looking all mischievous. If only she knew how close she was to the truth.

  While I work the razor over my jaw in the hotel mirror, he finds a cauliflower head and holds it up, Simba-style. “How beautiful is this cauliflower?”

  “As beautiful as your bald head is not.”

  “Bald by choice is beautiful.”

  I smirk at him, running a hand over my hair. My thick hair. “I wouldn’t know.”