I casually walk into the kitchen, the charming voice of Dean Martin growing louder.
“Morning,” I say, leaning against the small breakfast nook.
Ben’s standing at the counter, back to me, wearing nothing but a pair of grey dress pants with suspenders undone. Could he look any more amazing?
He turns, a mug in hand. “Morning,” he says. “Made coffee.”
I tug my bag higher up onto my shoulder. “Thanks,” I say as he hands me a full mug. “I’ve got to get to work, though.”
He takes a long slog, then makes a low groaning sound of satisfaction as he sets the mug onto the countertop. “Not a problem, Emily.”
What now? God, this is always the most awkward part about these things. Do we talk about seeing each other again? Plan another date? Kiss? Say we’ll call? Say so long? Hop back into bed for a quickie?
“Had fun last night,” he says with ease.
“Fun would be an understatement,” I say coyly.
“I’m really glad you called me.” He tosses the remains of his coffee into the sink and runs the water.
“Hey, uh,” I start, an idea coming to mind. “If you want you can come to the café where I work. Get ourselves some breakfast, give me a ride to work.” I bat my lashes.
“Sorry, gorgeous,” he says, slicking back his hair with his dampened hands from the sink water. I take a sip of coffee. “I’ve got to get to work myself. Got to give my girlfriend a ride to work, too.”
“What?” I gasp, blowing out droplets of coffee onto the countertop. “Your what?”
“My girlfriend,” he says so nonchalantly. “Well,” holding up a hand, “ex-girlfriend, I guess I should say. We’re in between.”
“In between?” I give a puzzled face. “What’s ‘in between’ mean? I thought you guys had a falling out?”
“You know.” He ambles towards the bedroom, picking up his shirt from last night that’s lying in a wrinkled mess on the floor. “We did have a falling out, but it’s certainly not the first time.” He rubs at the back of his ruddy neck. “We’re always in between, always falling out. Sometimes together, sometimes not. Drama, drama. You know?” He wads up his dirty shirt and drops it into an open hamper.
“No,” I say, taking a few steps nearer him to the bedroom. “I don’t know.”
“Look, she’s totally cool with me seeing other girls when we have these…” He makes a hollow motion with his arms. “…these arguments. Little mini-break-ups, I guess. Falling out, you know?”
I guffaw, utterly gobsmacked. No, I do not “know.”
“Ben.” I cross my arms. “I don’t know what kind of twisted relationship you and your girlfriend have.” I stop myself, hold up a finger, then say, “No, that’s judgmental. To each their own.” I wag my head in confusion and dismissal. “Whatever. Just…I can’t be a part of that kind of thing. That doesn’t work for me.”
“That’s cool,” he says, pulling a fresh shirt from the small closet. “You do what you feel you have to do, Emily. I do what I have to. We’re cool.”
I sigh loudly. Well, I think, what’d I expect after one date, one night?
“So, uh…” I twist my mouth to the side. I am totally confused. What the hell now?
“You’ve got my number,” he says, buttoning up a fresh, pale yellow shirt. “If I don’t talk to you before the next club meeting, then,” he slips on one suspender, “enjoy the book.”
He catches my stupefied gaze. “Come on, Emily.” He makes a throaty noise, lightly tossing his head back as he rolls up his shirt sleeves. “Let’s be real with each other. We both knew what this was all about. Don’t act so surprised.” He adjusts his suspenders and adds, “You wanted to hop into bed just as much as I did. No point in going on date after date, beating around the bush.”
“Well,” I say, surprising myself, “yeah, you’ve got a point, I guess.”
“If you want to have a good time, you know where I am.” He tosses a wink.
I restrain myself from asking how this could happen when he’s technically in a relationship, making me feel like total scum, but I heard it from the horse’s mouth. Apparently this is…normal?
“Call me if you like, Emily,” he says in an oddly reassuring voice. “Honest. My girlfriend’s cool. It’s all good. She hooks up with other guys, too.”
Okay, I’ve heard enough, I think as I scratch at my forehead.
“I’m going to head out,” I say, eyes avoiding his. I glance at my watch and realize I’ve wasted enough time here. Sophie’s going to freak if I don’t get my rear to the café.
“See ya round, Ben,” I say with a turn on my heel.
I mouth an Omigod, what the hell?! as I speedily walk to the front door.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Sophie?” I say into my cell phone. “I’m going to be a bit late.”
“No bigs,” Sophie responds. “Morning’s actually kind of slow. No stress.”
“Well,” I say, crossing the residential street. Nothing’s more awkward (other than the whole past ten minutes with Ben) than standing at the edge of your one-night-stand’s front yard, carless, dazed, a tad confused, and really late for work. Not to mention my stomach is growling and I could so use a scone right about now. “I’ve got a bit of a problem, Sophie.”
“You all right?” Her voice is suddenly thick with concern.
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose.” I walk nearer to the street sign on the corner. “I don’t really know where I am, and I obviously don’t have a car.”
“You still have your car with that co-worker of yours?”
“She can use it more than I can.” I shield my eyes from the sun and try to make out the street signs.
“You’re saying that right now, of all times?” she says in a joshing tone. “Sounds like you’re stranded. Where are you?”
“Uhhh.” I squint some more up at the signs.
“Google Map it.”
“My phone doesn’t do that.”
“Dear God, girl. No car, no cell phone from this century.”
“I’m at the corner of Valley and One Hundred and Second,” I say. “Can you call me a cab?”
“Hold on a sec. Let me look that up.” The line is silent for a brief moment.
“Okay,” Sophie returns. “You’re at the south end of Lake Union. What in God’s name are you doing there?”
“Book club guy,” I grumble, taking a cross-legged seat on the cold cement sidewalk. “Long story. Well, not really, but never mind. A cab would be great.”
“I’ll do you one better,” she says with confidence. “Let me call Chad. He lives around there and I know it’s too early for him to have left for his office already. I’ll call you back.”
***
A massive black truck pulls up at the corner, the driver’s window rolls down, and out pops Chad’s head. His eyes look sleepy, his hair’s a total wreck, but he’s smiling a goofy grin.
“Emily,” he says, hanging one nearly completely tattooed arm out the window. “It’s not exactly spring weather. Why you sitting on the curb like this?” He turns his head away for a second. “At seven fifteen in the morning? Someone answer a booty call?”
I pull myself up and make my way around to the passenger’s side of the truck. “Yeah, yeah,” I sing, shoulders slightly slumped forward in embarrassment. “Save it, Chad.” It takes three tries, but at last I climb aboard the tall truck.
“Hot date last night, eh?” he asks complacently, one hand loosely covering his mouth.
“Save it,” I repeat with an expression of warning. “Thanks a lot for doing this, by the way.”
He shifts the truck into reverse and begins to turn around. “Yeah, well, I kinda owe Sophie one anyhow. And I could never leave a cute girl like you stranded.”
“Ha, ha.” I pull my bunch of braids into a quick ponytail. “What’d you do now? Burn more muffins? Another Oatberry mishap?”
He’s deadpan, then says, “Ate the last cherry chocolate cu
pcake that she was apparently saving for herself.” He tosses up a hand and claps it down onto the wheel. “How am I supposed to know? Shop closed, clearing things out, one left. Usually she lets me take whatever goods are left over.”
“Chad.” I give him a poker face. “Every man should know you never come between a woman and her chocolate.”
***
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” I say to Sophie, flinging my bag onto the table under the chalkboard. By rote I fly the apron over my head and tie it off. I pull the notepad from its pocket and rip off the old, used sheet. “Disastrous morning. Thank you for saving me.”
Sophie busies herself with the chalkboard, consulting a notebook as she scribbles out a long list of to-bakes. “Care to divulge, my dear?” She bats her long lashes at me.
I proceed to tell her how I totally pulled a one-nighter, walking the wretched walk of shame. Spotting a few crumbling scones on a plate on the island table, I snag one, nearly starved to death now.
“I thought you really liked this guy, Em,” Sophie says, not taking her eyes off her work. Plum Strudel is now at the top of the chalkboard. “He was the added bonus on your Operation Blind Date list. Ben, right?”
I nod and say, with a stuffed mouth, “Correction. I was really attracted to him, evidently horny, and, well, here I am, the whole post-coitus-sitting-on-a-curb-waiting-for-a-friend-to-pick-me-up deal, now stuffing my face with day-old scones.” A spray of crumbs tumbles from my lips and onto my sweater dress.
“Two-day-old,” she corrects, scrawling madly away.
I examine the partially-eaten scone, shrug, and take another bite.
Sophie makes a loud, bold circle around the check box drawn next to Plum Strudel, turns to me, and says, “New recipe. Had an epiphany last night. We don’t have any plum on the menu.” I finish the scone and reach for another. “Anyway, proceed with your story, Miss.”
“So,” I say after a hearty bite. “Here I am, eating two-day-old scones, wearing the same outfit I wore yesterday—” Sophie’s now in a personal fit of giggles. “Glad I’m amusing you.” I take another bite, crumbs further dirtying my already well-worn outfit.
“What’s your plan of action now?” she questions with a slightly bewildered look after I’ve regaled her of all the ridiculous details. “I take it you’re not going out on date numero dos?”
“Don’t think so,” I assert myself. “I was crazy, madly sexually attracted to Ben; and don’t get me wrong, we clicked on other levels, too. Same books, both kind of…” I twist my jaw to the side. “…alternative, I guess.”
“But his super alternative lifestyle of one-night-stands and on-again off-again girlfriends is no bueno for you, right?” She grabs two paring knives.
“What’s with the Spanish?” I say with a laugh. “But, yeah, you’re right. I’m up for a casual fling now and then.”
“DJ boy,” she throws in, pointing the knives at me.
“Precisely.” I follow her to the workstation, where she’s laid out dozens of small plums. “But not when the dude’s got a girlfriend. On- or off-again, I don’t care. What’s the point of a relationship? You know?”
Sophie hands me a paring knife, wields one herself, and begins to slice the plums. “What’s the point of playing this game of Operation if you’re not up for finding something more serious?” she poses. “You obviously have no problem finding short-term gigs.”
“Exactly,” I exclaim. I begin to mimic Sophie, slicing the plums into six even slices. Well, as even as I can manage.
Sophie sets her freshly sliced plums into the large bowl before us. “So you still need more time to heal or go on ‘dates’?” She makes air quotes, knife still in hand. She spins around and turns on some music. “Or are we back to playing Operation?”
“You ready to set me up?” I’m honestly piqued about whether or not she’s found someone. (And how viable the setup will be.)
She rubs at her forehead with the back of her hand, knife still in her grasp. “Look, it’s nearly Thanksgiving.”
“It is?” Where does the time go?
“A week from tomorrow.” She looks at me like I’ve lost my brain. I just may have. “My brother John’s coming into town for the holidays.”
“That’s nice. No trip home to Santa Barbara then?” I place my plum slices in the bowl, stealing one for myself.
“Can’t fathom taking time off from this place,” she replies. “Christmas, maybe, for a few days. Anyway.” She shakes her head. “He’s coming up from San Francisco to keep me company during Thanksgiving, and he’s about to move back to London.” She consults her pad of paper with the recipe scrawled on it. She retrieves a bag of fine sugar and begins to measure it out. “He’s got a big case opening up over there, so he’s relocating. Again.”
“Sweet,” I say, eating another plum.
John was living in London working on some time-consuming legal deal when I swung by last summer to hang with Sophie for a bit. I was on my way home from Ghana, and London was Sophie’s precursor to her phenomenal summer in Paris, learning how to bake some of the most delectable treats for what would be The Cup and the Cake. It was a great trip, and with John over in London again maybe Sophie will head that way, too. Hey, maybe I will!
“He said he’s so ready to live over there for a while again,” Sophie says.
“San Francisco’s an awesome place,” I say, “but London’s energy is intoxicating. You going to visit him, maybe?”
“Maybe.” She sounds distracted. “If I manage a break, maybe, but anyway. John. He’s going to be in town next week for a few days and…well…” Her voice starts to chirrup.
“Wait a minute.” I stop my slicing and look at Sophie. I insist she meet my gaze. She concedes, and I say, “You want to hook me up with your brother?” She makes a small nod. “John? Your brother, John?”
“Look,” she says, vigorously slicing now. “So he might be gay, he might not be. I’m going with no right now. Bear with me here.”
I can’t suppress a cackle. “Sophie! A blind date with a gay man is—is—it’s not far from my shacking up with One-Night-Benny-Boy. It’s so not part of the Operation recipe.”
She increases the speed of her slicing, her face looking intensely focused.
“And he’s your brother, Sophie!” I curl my upper lip. “You want to set me up on a date with your possibly gay brother who’s moving to London for an extended period of time? How is that supposed to work out?”
She stops slicing and pulls a sideways glance. “Apparently I have no social life. I live in this café.” She makes a circular motion with the paring knife. “So I know zero eligible bachelors.” She resumes her slicing, this time at a speedier pace. “The point, Emily, is that my little black book is, well, little. All right, it’s non-existent.” She blows up at her long, brown bangs.
“John’s a great guy,” she continues, “and minus the whole possibly gay thing, I think he’d be a great setup. You two would get on well. I mean, it was amiable between you two back in London when you were there. He’s attractive. He’s successful. He travels.”
“True,” I say in an upbeat voice. “But gay? Sophie, how in the hell will this work?”
“I’m not so sure he’s gay anymore.”
I eat another piece of plum. “What do you mean?”
“He just got out of a relationship with a fellow lawyer at his firm,” she explains. “She’s some intern-newbie or something—a real ditz and wet behind the ears, but, that’s John for you. One friendly wink and he can have his pick of women.”
“Oooh,” I say joshingly. “Sign me up, puh-lease!”
“Come on,” Sophie whines. “Next week, day after Thanksgiving? Does that work? It’s just one date, and he’s already agreed. Come on.”
I heave a dramatic sigh, already knowing my answer, but leaving Sophie like a cat on a hot tin roof for a few fun seconds. Her pleading face is too hilarious, and I can use a bit of laughter right about now.
“Pl
ease, Em,” she whines some more.
“All right,” I say with a semi-smug look. “I’ll go out on a blind date with your gay brother.”
“Ugh!” she groans. “I’m serious. I don’t think he is. You go on this date and be the judge.”
I laugh. “All right, all right. You’ve got yourself a deal.”
She looks pleased with herself. “Fab. Then next week, date number four commences!”
I feel my face lose some color when I realize once again that next week is Thanksgiving. Next week Brandon’s supposed to visit Robin. He’s supposed to meet Rose. Suddenly my love life (or lack thereof) pales in comparison.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Everything okay over there, Emily?” Gatz asks as he rinses the large load of dishes he’s just cleaned. “Look a little dazed or something.”
I blink hard a few times and look over at him. I’m on a short break, reading some of Eat, Pray, Love, but somehow I’ve become distracted and have been staring off into space.
“Feeling all right?” He runs more dishes under the water. “You look a little peaked.”
“Oh, got distracted I guess.” I look at the opened page of my book, clueless where I’ve left off reading.
I was actually beginning to think about work. I’d gotten an email from my editor at Seattle Outdoors & Sports yesterday saying that he’d really like to talk to me after the holidays about expanding my opportunities at the magazine. No doubt another hint that they’re interested in offering me a full-time position. A position where I clock in, clock out, show up to work every single day, maybe even have a title.
I just don’t know about that kind of long-term career commitment. Freelancing for the magazine is great, and coming in to The Cup and the Cake to help out one of my best friends when she needs me is a lot of fun. I love the freedom to be there every now and then, and to be able to stop my assignments or shifts without any hassle.
There’s a big red circle around the first day of December on my kitchen wall calendar, because that’s the soonest the application for the Zambian project will become available. Every time I see it I get excited and anticipatory, and then I think how lucky I am to be able to just pack and hitch on out, no commitments with careers.
When Girlfriends Take Chances Page 23
