Good With His Hands

by Lauren Blakely

  Then, I let the melancholy flow away.

  I hold on to the love I feel when I remember the way Claire and I were together. The way we shared everything. Deep down, I know she wouldn’t mind me sharing the details about her brother with her, though she would absolutely insist I kept all the smutty information to myself.

  Smutty . . .

  With a grin reserved for girl time and girl talk, I reach for a framed photo of the two of us. A cell phone shot, naturally, the two of us peering into our room at the allegedly haunted bed-and-breakfast. We both have our eyebrows raised, looking skeptical, giving our best no way are there ghosts here look at the creepy room.

  Sometimes looking at this photo makes me ache. Tonight, I choose to smile.

  Because I have the memories of that friendship. True, I never expected I’d be writing letters to Claire that she’d never get to read.

  But then, life can be unexpected.

  Tonight was unexpected too.

  Well, liking the mushrooms was unexpected. That I enjoyed kissing Jesse was all kinds of expected.

  And in the very near future, I might well have smutty memories to cherish featuring Jesse Hendrix and me.

  A giddy grin stretches across my face as I fold the letter. I slip it into the drawer where I keep all my letters to Claire and reach for a fresh piece of watercolor paper and my favorite ink pen.

  I’m too keyed up to sleep, and art is the only thing that has a chance of calming me down.

  Of course, it would help if I could stop sketching loose images of a man in sexy, ass-flattering jeans, who looks so much like Jesse it’s clear his body is already burned into my brain.

  Jump-start, indeed.

  I’m not usually good at drawing from my imagination—I need a reference photo or a model in front of me—but tonight I don’t have a bit of trouble.

  I draw Jesse in jeans and then . . . out of jeans, my cheeks heating as I mix the perfect shade of golden tan for his skin and add faint touches of pink to the places I’d like to make his blood rush for me.

  By the time I’m done, I’m even more keyed up than I was before, and I’m in possession of the most sexually explicit artwork I’ve ever created. I’m usually a cute-cartoon-pie-and-dancing-fork-drawing kind of girl.

  Or, in my free time, a creator of snarky illustrated cards I sell on my Etsy store. Congratulations on your breakup: we hated him and Adulthood is straight up the worst hood I’ve ever lived in are my bestsellers, but Remember to get your titties squeezed this year, ’cause you’re old now! and Tequila: because the chandelier isn’t going to swing from itself are gaining ground.

  I’ve been working on a new design—a soup can with a jagged open top with I’ll cut a bitch written in calligraphy underneath—but I’m not in the mood to fuss with it tonight.

  Instead, I find myself brainstorming what kind of card I’d send to Jesse. Perhaps, I like you for your personality, but those fuck-me eyes are a nice bonus.

  Or maybe, I like you for your personality, but those lips are a nice bonus.

  Or possibly something even naughtier, because I’m pretty sure sex with Jesse is going to be the best bonus ever.

  Sex. I’m going to have sex again. Finally.

  I mean, I think we are.

  What did he say, exactly?

  We should sleep on it?

  Maybe he meant sleep with me.

  Why yes, Jesse, you may sleep with me, pleasure me, and bestow life-affirming orgasms upon me to the tune of . . . hmmm . . . how about, say, more than I can count?

  Ding, ding, ding!

  That ought to be a card.

  A thank-you card.

  Thanks for the orgasms. How about another?

  Besides, isn’t that a thing we should thank people for?

  Maybe I can send Jesse that card . . . tomorrow?

  Unable to contain my excitement any longer, I grab my cell and text Gigi.

  * * *

  Ruby: Are you still awake?

  * * *

  Seconds later, she shoots back a reply.

  * * *

  Gigi: You know I am. I’ve been waiting for the gossip. How was your date that wasn’t a date?

  * * *

  I bite my lip and tap out a note.

  * * *

  Ruby: Datier than expected.

  * * *

  Gigi: Ha! I knew it! Did you do the dirty deed? Is he there right now, snoring in your bed, too exhausted to move because your sex-starved little self ravaged him so completely?

  * * *

  I giggle like I’m closer to thirteen than thirty and reply.

  * * *

  Ruby: No. We decided to sleep on it before we took the next step, but the kissing was very, very nice. The nicest ever.

  THAT MAN CAN KISS.

  WE ARE TALKING THE FULL-ON SWOON-INDUCING, KNEE-BUCKLING VARIETY.

  * * *

  A GIF of a worried little girl sliding her gaze nervously toward the camera pops up on my screen.

  * * *

  Gigi: Uh-oh. But he’s still leaving, right?

  * * *

  Ruby: He is, but it’s fine. It’s perfect, actually. We’ll enjoy each other until he moves, without any worries about feelings or other complicating factors. It’ll just be satisfying, friendly boning, as the Good Lord intended.

  * * *

  She sends over a laughing emoji, then a longer reply.

  * * *

  Gigi: Is that what He intended? Good to know. I’m over relationships. The next time I meet a guy I like, I’m just going to get in, get some friendly boning, and get out. No stress, no mess, no waiting for him to confess he’s also boning half the population of Greenpoint.

  * * *

  I wince. Poor Gigi. Her last three boyfriends were all cheaters. It was basically the only thing they had in common.

  Aside from the fact that they all made my “He’s Probably a Jerk” tail tingle when I met them.

  Though, I’m not sure I’m in any place to give relationship advice, considering my last serious boyfriend was four years ago. Well before the accident, and well before Chad.

  Brian and I met at a wine and painting class in Williamsburg and hit it off in a way only liquor and poorly drawn otters make possible.

  There’s a reason I don’t drink and draw. Yes, I’m an artist, but I’m also a lightweight.

  We dated for eight months, exchanged I’m falling for yous, but then the relationship just . . . petered out.

  It was weird. I suppose I expected betrayal, like poor Gigi’s gone through, or some Sturm und Drang like Claire and her love affairs, which were all sparks and fire.

  Brian and I were more . . . weak tea and cold scrambled eggs.

  I’m not sure what could have made us work—or what makes relationships work in general—but I know Gigi is awesome and that someday Henry Cavill, or his doppelgänger, will see that.

  So I reply with nothing but the truth.

  * * *

  Ruby: You’ll find someone loyal someday. I know you will. You’re smart and sexy and funny and fabulous, and the right guy is going to see that and bend over backward to hold on to you.

  * * *

  Gigi: Back at you, mama. So don’t settle, okay? Go after what you want, no matter what obstacles might be standing in your way.

  * * *

  Ruby: I will. But friends-with-benefits is all I want from Jesse.

  * * *

  Gigi: Okay. If you’re sure. Good night and sweet dreams. Or dirty dreams, I guess. Sounds as if that’s more likely, lol.

  * * *

  Her words are prophetic.

  I do, indeed, have dirty dreams about Jesse all night, and wake to the sun shining through my apartment window, still every bit as sure that I want to get naked with him, ASAP, as I was last night.

  I also, however, wake to a text from my mother.

  My mother, who would probably give birth to a litter of kittens if she knew I was thinking about rolling around in bed with Jesse. She
knows Jesse and I are good friends, and Barb isn’t a fan of crossing those kind of lines.

  Friends should stay friends, lovers should stay lovers, and everyone should just get with the program and marry their second serious boyfriend the way she did and keep relationships simple so we can all focus on important things like running a successful business and making the world’s most mouth-watering pie.

  I jettison nudity from my mind and focus my bleary eyes on Mom’s text.

  * * *

  Mom: Chocolate sampling for the German chocolate cream pie recipe I’m fine-tuning? Cocoa Is Love is opening an hour early for me. Be there or be sad because you missed Mom-and-chocolate bonding time.

  * * *

  Ruby: I see you’re relaxing and enjoying your vacation.

  * * *

  Mom: What’s more relaxing than playing with new recipes? Come join me. You know you want chocolate for breakfast!

  * * *

  I can deny neither that truth nor my mother, so an hour later, I enter the cool, air-conditioned chocolate shop in Park Slope.

  My mom, looking adorable with her salt and pepper hair in a bouncy ponytail and the sparkly eyeshadow Gigi bought her for Christmas last year dusted around her eyes, leans in to peck my cheek. “Hey, baby. Glad I could twist your arm.”

  “Of course. Wow. It smells amazing in here.” I lift my nose to inhale the scent of chocolate—luscious, decadent, expensive chocolate. The kind that’s priced by the ounce, like gold.

  She beams. “Like I always say—there’s no better job in the world than pie-ing.”

  She does say that. A lot. She loves her work so much it’s not really a “job” to her at all. It’s more like a calling. A passion.

  We sit at a cute café table in the back, and a soft-spoken clerk in a faded pink linen dress brings us a tray of samples surrounded by fresh, edible flowers. I place the circular morsels of chocolate on my tongue, the initial bitterness of the dark cocoa giving way to subtler hints of raspberry or cherry (my fave, of course) or even chili spice with the third one (a little weird, but still delicious).

  Mom asks my opinion on each, which I happily give. My palate isn’t as sophisticated as hers, but I know my way around a chocolate tasting—unlike the mushroom fest last night.

  Though, mushroom meals that end with kissing Jesse could absolutely get me back at one of Abe’s tables.

  Any day of the week.

  God, that kiss . . .

  “So you like that one, huh?” Mom asks with a little laugh as she points at my face. “Your eyes melted in the center.”

  “Um, yeah, it’s really good,” I say, nodding as I reach for another sample and push thoughts of Jesse from my head.

  Must concentrate on yummy chocolate, not yummy men.

  “I’m so glad you love sweets as much as I do,” Mom says, her hazel eyes twinkling as bright as her eyeshadow. “Sweetie Pies is going to be in good hands when you take over.”

  My chest twinges, a strange sensation. It’s not the first time she’s said something like that. She issues variations on the theme all the time.

  But something about it feels off . . . like a pair of pants that don’t quite fit.

  And I’m not sure why.

  Maybe the pants just need a belt. Or to be let out a little, if I keep eating chocolate for breakfast.

  That has to be it.

  “Sweets are the best,” I say with a smile, then I pop another square of chocolate in my mouth and let the flavor smooth over the moment of discomfort.

  Mom finally settles on a dark chocolate with hints of caramel and coconut that’s going to be insanely delicious in her German chocolate cream pie. We thank the clerk and head out into the morning air.

  On the way back to my parents’ place, we pass Sweetie Pies; Mom waves to the empty shop and coos, “See you soon, darling.”

  “You’re an oddball. You know that, right?”

  She elbows me in the side and whispers, “Wave at her, so she knows you miss her too.”

  Laughing, I wave at the store. It will always have a soft spot in my heart. Like home.

  When we reach my parents’ brownstone, Mom thanks me for joining her and gives me a big hug. “So good to see you, my sweetie pie.”

  Her embrace warms my heart. Always has.

  I’m so lucky to have her. I know enough mothers and daughters to realize what we have is special. My mother has always made me feel so loved and supported, ever since I was a little girl.

  As we pull apart and I head across the park to my place, her hug stays with me, a warm glow that follows me even when we’re apart.

  It gives me an idea for number four on the list.

  Last night I figured out what ugly thing I wanted to make beautiful, but I wasn’t sure exactly how I wanted to go about it until now.

  Inside my apartment, I jot down some quick thoughts, my throat tightening, my heart clutching. But this feels right, and I’m excited to share the idea with Jesse.

  I put on my painting clothes, check the time. I have an hour before I need to leave to meet my partner in crime.

  Maybe my partner in something sexier than crime if things work out the way I hope they will.

  I let my thoughts return to Jesse and his kiss and all the sizzling things he made me feel. Surely, benefits won’t ruin our friendship.

  Besides, it took more than six months to reach the outer limits of the “falling for you” zone with Brian, and we never did really get there. And Chad, in three months, didn’t even come close.

  There’s no way I’ll get in deep with Jesse in two weeks.

  Inspired, I grab my idea notebook from my desk and write I would very much like to get naked with you at your earliest convenience, and smile.

  If I hurry, I might have time to paint a mockup of the card before I leave to meet Jesse in SoHo.

  11

  Jesse

  To sex or not to sex—that is the question.

  I like to ponder these sorts of deep issues during a hard, sweaty run.

  Letting the to-dos and the to-don’ts roll through my head as I pound the path around the park.

  Friends-with-benefits sounds good in theory.

  But does it work in reality?

  Normally, I’d marinate on the possibilities as I ran the Prospect Park loop a couple of times while listening to one of those true-crime podcasts that make me consider becoming a detective if the whole “body shop” thing peters out someday. I like puzzles and shutting down bad guys. Or I think I would.

  But today is Sunday, so I’m running with Max, who’s pushing Penny in her jog-friendly stroller while the genius two-year-old demonstrates—over and over again—that she can count to twenty.

  I am not thinking about sex.

  At all.

  Penny makes it to ten, adds a hurrah, then scurries through the next few numbers, skipping fourteen. Also, seventeen.

  “All done and no bad numbers,” she says in a singsong voice as Max pushes her beside me.

  “What do you have against fourteen?” I ask. “And seventeen, for that matter?”

  She gives me a toothy grin. “Ten is better, silly.”

  I jerk my gaze to Max. “Explain.”

  He shrugs. “Numbers. Some are scary. Am I right or am I right?”

  I shrug too, then pat Penny’s stroller in solidarity. “Boo numbers.”

  “File it away under ‘kids have an opinion on everything,’” Max adds, then he leans over and ruffles her shiny, nearly black hair. Max’s wife is Korean, and Penny is the spitting image of her mama. The only genes she appears to have inherited from Max are her long fingers and quirky sense of humor. “And that’s what makes you so awesome and brilliant and kind and smart and cool.”

  “You’re cool too, Dadda!” Penny shouts.

  I raise a skeptical brow. “You taught her to say that, right?”

  “Damn straight I did. Kids need to learn the facts of life. And it’s an incontrovertible fact that her dad rocks.”
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br />   “Listen, if you ever need some more confidence, just in case you’re running low, I hear there’s a guy in Brooklyn Heights who can hook you up.”

  “And you suffer from the same affliction,” he says as we slow our pace, nearing the end of our run. We exit the park not far from my hood, cruising within spitting distance of Perk Up Brooklyn.

  Max tips his chin at the café. “The usual? Only one Sunday left of cinnamon and sugar cortados.”

  “Let’s do it,” I say, a little more enthusiastically than I feel. I’m going to miss Max a helluva lot. I’ll miss these Sunday runs with him and his little goofball.

  “Try not to miss me too much when you’re gone,” he says, reading my mind.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Max takes a beat as we slow at the crosswalk. “Though, I suspect it’s not me you’ll be missing most.”

  I shoot him a what do you mean look.

  He scratches his jaw, Godfather style, then goes full Brando. “Abe told me about you and Ruby last night.”

  “Abe? What—is he like a spy now?”

  “Shh. Secret agent.”

  “Seriously. How did you end up talking to Abe? I mean, I know you get takeout way too much, but I didn’t realize you’d reached exchanging-gossip status with your mushroom hookup.”

  Sheepishly, Max says, “Fine. His wife told Theresa. Theresa told me.”

  “Ah, the old telephone game,” I say as we cross the street.

  “Heard you two were pretty cozy,” he says, then clears his throat. “So, what’s going on there?”

  Briefly, I weigh the pros and cons of saying something about Ruby and what’s on my mind. I’m not a grab-a-pint-of-ice-cream-and-gab kind of guy. I tend to keep that shit close to the vest.