by Gayla Twist
“Legionnaire’s disease, I suspect.”
“Probably. Don’t even dream of kissing me, I’m probably contagious.”
“Fair warning.”
We drove home and I had to pinch my thumb again. This date was such a mistake. He wasn’t interested in me, of course not. He just felt bad for me. And how could we keep being friends with this between us now, like a piece of spinach in your teeth that would never go away?
I hopped out of the car before any uncomfortable conversation could arise.
“I’ll call you tomorrow to make sure you’re feeling better.”
“Thanks,” I said, dashing off to my apartment for a long, hot, bubble bath and an even longer cry.
After a restless night, I knew I had to talk to Miranda. She’d be mad I didn’t tell her about this all along, but she would tell me how to save my friendship with Brady if there were any way to do that.
I heard someone out in the hall and popped up to look through the peephole. Brady was leaving Miranda’s apartment. I sucked in a breath and flattened my back against the wall. My heart was in my stomach. Miranda had hooked up with him, after all. She didn’t know how I felt about him, or she never would have done it. But of course, I’d been too stupid to tell her about my silly little crush.
I knocked my head against the wall a few times, then jumped back in bed, unwilling to answer the door for him in case he stopped by my place.
But he never came.
Miranda, however, did. And I wouldn’t let her in. Was he after her now? A nice substitute for his ex-girlfriend? Did seeing Laura remind him there was a perfect body-double nearby?
I waited for her to stop knocking, quickly got dressed, and left the apartment. I couldn’t bear to hear her gushing over the guy I was crazy about. I left a note on my door telling her I was visiting my parents and would be home quite late.
But I didn’t feel like crying on Mom’s shoulder over this. She’d give me some sickly sweet pep talk about how special I am and how anyone would be lucky to have me blah, blah, barf. Instead, I went to the zoo. I’d probably do too much damage at the mall.
But that didn’t cheer me up. It was a miserably hot day, and even the kangaroos just stood there. Not a hop in the bunch. Plus, there was no one to share a joke with.
It took everything in me not to answer the phone when Brady called. And he called three times. Miranda did, too. I was hoping in a few days the idea of the two of them together would be easier to swallow.
But chances were Miranda wouldn’t last with him a few days. She ate up her men like they were microwave meals; Brady was a single-serving pizza. And no way would he be settling for me as a consolation prize. Hopefully we could strike up a friendship again in a while, but it would never be like it had been.
And I wasn’t even going to insist he pay up on his bet and get me that damn shirt.
I managed to avoid Miranda on Monday, too, by heading in to work early and staying late.
She kept calling and finally left a voice mail. “I really, really need to talk to you about Brady.”
Delete. Not yet.
I also ignored three more phone calls from Brady. I supposed it wasn’t fair. They didn’t know I’d seen them together. Miranda would be furious with me for not returning her calls, but I was still hardening up my emotions. Kind of like a crab that had molted and needed to grow its new shell.
Brady’s messages were vague. “I really want to talk to you, Jane. Please return my calls. Unless you’ve got laryngitis. Or donated your vocal chords to science. Please, just call.”
By Wednesday morning when I dragged myself into work I was miserable. Even the darling ragdoll cat we were boarding for a week didn’t cheer me up.
I got ready in exam room one for a new client bringing in a kitten. Maybe it would be a cute little bugger who would make me smile. I looked up when the door opened. My mouth dropped, but nothing came out.
“Hi, Jane. I’d like you to meet Fluffy.”
“Brady? What are you doing with a kitten? What are you doing here?”
“I needed to see you. You wouldn’t answer my calls, you’re never home. So, I figured you couldn’t refuse a guy with a new cat.” He held it up next to his face and smiled.
“Miranda doesn’t like cats. Or maybe you two have broken up already? She’s like that.” God, I could be such a brat.
He set the cat down on the exam table and made a time-out sign with his hands. “What are you talking about?”
I looked down and pinched the bridge of my nose. “I saw you leaving her apartment Sunday morning. And Fluffy is such a boring name.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t know you were getting a cat, or I would have objected.”
He shook his head. “No, about seeing me at Miranda’s?” His kitten jumped down to the floor, inspecting the place.
“Yes, interrupt your post-coital embrace.”
He rubbed his face with his hands while his kitten brushed against my ankles. I picked it up and stroked its head.
“I was over there asking her about you.”
“Me?” I pressed my hand against my chest. “What about me? If I would object to the two of you getting together?”
“I like you, Jane. I really like you. I didn’t realize it at first, but that’s why I wouldn’t let you go out with any of those other guys. My brother? Only if you want to kill me.”
I crossed my arms with the kitty pressed against my chest and tapped my foot. “If you like me, why did you have to talk to her about it?”
His hands circled the air, as he struggled to answer. “For some reason, I can’t let you know how I really feel about you without it coming out like a joke. I needed her advice. And no, I’m not interested in someone like her, with her tally of conquests and plans for worldwide man domination. When I met you, it was like I got knocked over the head and could think of nothing but you. Only, getting hit over the head made me too stupid to realize what was going on. I’ve been a bit gun-shy since I broke up with my ex.”
He reached for my hand but I gave him his cat instead. This wasn’t Jerry Maguire. He didn’t have me at hello. “But you were acting so strange when we went out to dinner. I definitely wasn’t getting any ‘I’m interested’ signals from you.”
He sighed. “I know. I was nervous, and I didn’t know how to be serious around you and tell you how I really felt. What if you made a joke out of it?”
I pretended to tidy up the counter, moving a box of plastic gloves around and wiping up a spot that wasn’t there. “I thought you were asking me out because you felt sorry for me.” Wincing, I thought of the frizzy-haired girl and her chardonnay.
He walked over and took me by the arm. “Please, blame it on medication, or a mental illness, or temporary stupidity. I want you, Jane.”
I let the words play back in my head. He wants me. “No joke?”
He shook his head. “No joke.” He swallowed and looked down at the floor. “I just hope you feel the same.”
I turned to him and stared, looking for a trace of sarcasm or teasing. But there was none. Slowly, I wrapped my arms around him like I’d imagined doing so many times. “I do.” I squeezed tightly and pressed my eyes shut. “I’ve felt this way since the first night I met you.”
His hands cupped my shoulders. “I guess I’m a little slow.”
“Or maybe it’s environmental poisoning. But you’re worth the wait.”
He bent down and brushed his lips against mine. Fluffy jumped onto the exam table and rubbed against my hip, reminding me I was at work. I broke away from our kiss. “I can’t do this.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
I turned away from him. “I have to examine your cat.” I looked at him over my shoulder and smiled. “We’ll have to try that again when I’m off the clock.”
He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank God. I thought you were going to tell me you were joining the Peace Corps.”
&n
bsp; “Or a nunnery.”
“Or worse—starting a list like Miranda’s.” He came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and kissed the back of my head.
My stomach rolled in delight. Then I felt guilty for thinking he and Miranda had hooked up. “I need to apologize to her. I haven’t returned her calls, either.”
“You’d better. Last I checked she was looking at bridesmaid’s dresses for what she predicts will be our upcoming nuptials.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Well, she was checking out venues for a bachelorette party.”
“Now that I believe.”
A week later, I wandered into the bar alone, since Miranda was in the Bahamas with her new beau. Still hadn’t found an Australian with a yacht, though. But, I figure it’s good for her to have goals. Brady saw me and waved.
I scowled at the line of girls at the bar. I scanned the rafters for new bras but there weren’t any recent additions.
I found a stool and sat down. I tossed a small shopping bag at Brady and he caught it. “What’s this?”
“I’m settling up on our bet.”
He pulled out the t-shirt and smiled. “I’m taken,” he read.
One of the girls in front of him pouted. “Aww, you are?”
He looked at me and smiled. “Yes, I am.”
“And his girlfriend is crazy,” I told her, twirling my finger in a circle next to my head. “You don’t want to mess with her.”
“Really?” she asked.
Brady nodded. “She’s gotten into fights over me.”
“She’s been in jail,” I offered.
“The psych ward,” he added.
I nodded. “She even made that shirt just to keep women away.”
The girls were wide-eyed. “Why are you, like, dating her then?” one asked.
He looked at me and smiled. “She’s funny, and beautiful, and she gets me.”
I held up one finger. “Wait, I thought it was because you were afraid she’d kick your ass if you broke up with her?”
“Well, yes. There’s that too.”
“Awww, you sweetie,” I said, leaning across the bar for a kiss. “But wear the shirt anyway.”
His dimples appeared as he smiled and met my lips. “Always.”
The End
* * *
Want to read more by Lisa Scott? (Who doesn’t?) Then check out her Flirts! series, available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and all other online outlets.
But Lisa’s talents aren’t limited to just short romances, she also writes the Willowdale Romance series. And! Her debut middle grade novel, School of Charm, will be released by Katherine Tegen Books, an imprint of HarperCollins, in early 2014.
Thank you Lisa Scott!
* * *
If you’re still feeling the cause and want to do even more to help end world slavery, you can actually send money directly to Not For Sale. Yes, believe it or not, they take donations. That website again is: www.notforsalecampaign.org
Want to do even more than that? You are so awesome! But here’s where things get a little more challenging. I know it’s awkward, but we women have to talk to our men about prostitution.
“Now, wait a minute!” you may be thinking. “My son/brother/husband/cousin would never go to a brothel!”
Yes, I’m sure you’re right. But the more men who are confident in openly criticizing their friends who go the brothels, the fewer men will end up going.
Let me tell you a creepy story from my past which might shine some light on the secrets of certain men.
About fifteen years ago, I was traveling in Thailand. One morning in Bangkok, I was having breakfast at a café and an American gentleman started chatting with me. He was eighty-three, had been married for almost sixty years, had five grandchildren and flew to Thailand twice a year on business. I was thinking he was rather sweet until I asked him if he ever brought his wife with him for a holiday.
The man licked his chops and said, “Oh no. Thailand is filled with too many sexual delights for me to bring my wife.”
I was freaked out. Here was ostensibly this older gentleman, who was actually a cheating pervert. He had given me his business card earlier in our conversation, and I figured I could bluff my way through with a good heart attack story to getting his wife’s home number.
I just couldn’t decide what to do, so I called my mom and told her everything. She thought about it and advised that either his wife already knew he was a perv or she was in blissful denial and I would be ruining her life by pulling the blinders from her eyes.
I did not call, but I still wonder if I did the right thing. Plus, to this day, I can hear the sound of that old bastard licking his chops, and it still gives me the creeps.
So the moral of my story is, you never know.
Talk to the men in your life. Tell them the truth about slavery. The more of us who are against any kind of slavery, the better we can fight it.
Thanks for reading. You really are the best.
XXOO Gayla Twist
If you enjoyed Cause Célèbre and would like to read another romantic comedy written by yours truly, please consider The Art of Love:
When Sue finds out her slacker boyfriend is cheating on her, it’s the last straw. She knows she has to make some drastic changes in her life, and the first step is to end her dependence on relationship self-help books. Instead, she decides to use The Art of War to try to land Trent Winchell, her handsome and successful boss. But Sue isn't the only woman who thinks Trent would make an ideal boyfriend. Now Sue must marshal her forces to find out if the quintessential book on military strategy can teach her something about The Art of Love.
Here are a few chapters so you can try before you buy:
The Art of Love
By Gayla Twist
Chapter 1
“How many times do I tell you? Why do you make me yell? You do not do zis your way or zee way in some fancy cookbook. You do zis zee Escoffier way!”
That’s my boss, Chef Escoffier, giving the kitchen staff his daily motivational speech. It doesn’t matter that everyone at Bouche is working flat out getting ready for the dinner rush, he still feels compelled to shout at us. I’ve read that it’s not productive to yell at people in an attempt to make them work harder because they’ll just focus on the yelling and not on whatever task they’re supposed to get done. Escoffier, apparently, hasn’t read the same article.
If you could see a picture of Escoffier, you’d think he was a good-natured, dapper little Frenchman. He’s about five foot five with a luxurious silver mustache and thinning silver hair. You can tell he doesn’t do much actual cooking anymore by his prosperous tummy, which makes him look positively jovial. I’ve heard people say, “Never trust a skinny chef,” but by rule of thumb, skinny chefs are the ones in the trenches working hard; fat chefs are “managing” from a distance, preferring to rub elbows with the higher-end customers and sampling more food than they cook. Pastry chefs are an exception to this rule, but that’s a hazard of their chosen specialty.
Don’t think Chef Escoffier is particularly that much of a tyrant. I’ve been working in the restaurant industry my entire life, and it’s a common characteristic that most chefs like to lose their temper at least a dozen times a day. They don’t even view it as losing their temper; they just view it as working. This habit doesn’t make for the most pleasant working environment, but it does build a certain kind of camaraderie amongst the staff.
The thing that’s so challenging about working under Escoffier is that he’s inconsistent with both his praise and his tirades. Sometimes you’ll think you’ve been working hard and deserve a crumb or two of kindness, but he finds some minor fault with your work and lets fly with a giant tantrum. Other times, when you’ve screwed up royally and you’re sure the ax is going to fall, he pets and praises you like a favorite child. It makes it difficult to relax and actually get any work done.
I work at Bouche, which is the restaurant for the Winchell Hotel. Our
website’s landing page starts out with, "Welcome to Chicago’s historic Winchell Hotel. The Winchell has been the home away from home for presidents, diplomats, royalty, and celebrities since 1923." This is mostly true. The Winchell is one of the nicer hotels in downtown Chicago, and it has been around to the point that its interior has passed from looking dated to being called classic. As for the restaurant, if you go by our website, "The crown jewel of the Winchell is the world-renowned Bouche Restaurant featuring the culinary delights of Master Chef Escoffier." This part of the website isn’t so true.
Dining at Bouche used to be a big deal back in the eighties, when your average schlub could still be considered edgy by overpaying for a burger at the Hard Rock Café. The interior of Bouche has received one or two facelifts over the years, so that’s not so bad, but Escoffier hasn’t bothered to change the menu since blue eyeliner was in fashion. Lobster thermidor and prime rib au jus aren’t considered the elegant specialties they were thirty years ago. Our current clientele consists mostly of middle-aged out-of-towners who remember the restaurant’s reputation from when they were young and Bouche was considered a national hot spot. I wasn’t even on the planet when that was the case. These days, most Chicagoans consider Bouche a bit of a dinosaur and silently shake their heads when their aunt comes for a visit from Muncie, Indiana, and insists on dining there. I know it, and most of the Bouche staff knows it. Unfortunately, Escoffier and the Winchell family probably haven’t quite come to that realization yet, and we’ve got the plunging receipts to prove it.
Once Escoffier has finished motivating the staff in general, he usually likes to make the rounds, giving each one of us a stinging slice of his expert opinion. I especially hate this part of the day. I know he criticizes everyone, but when he has me in his sites, I always feel like I’m back in middle school being verbally savaged by Miss Todd, the sadistic phys ed teacher who desperately wanted to be “in” with the popular girls and realized humiliating the rest of us was the fast track to accomplishing her goal. It’s that level of embarrassment.
