Good With His Hands

by Lauren Blakely

  “We can’t,” I say, still laughing. “We’re supposed to be at your parents’ place in an hour.”

  “So? We’ll be quick,” he says, kissing my neck.

  “But we still have to pick up wine on the way,” I say, even as I arch into his lips, shivering while he drags his teeth along the sensitive skin at my throat.

  “It’s fine. Lots of things still open. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  We do not, in fact, have plenty of time. After Jesse proves how sexy he is when he’s smug—a feat he accomplishes by hooking my ankles over his shoulders and rearranging my insides in the most amazing ways—we both shower and get dressed in our Thanksgiving finery, but we’re running twenty minutes late.

  “Never again,” I pant as we race down the stairs to catch one of the few trains running today. “Next time, we’re going to leave early!”

  But we don’t.

  A little more than a month later, I’m at his place for New Year’s Eve and we almost miss the ball drop at the swanky Hollywood party he was lucky enough to score an invite to.

  We’re too busy christening his new hot tub and chasing each other through his still only partially furnished rental house, seeing how many rooms we can break in over one weekend.

  Four, it turns out.

  I’m still thinking about the up-against-the-wall sex in his dining room when we slip into the party, grabbing champagne moments before the countdown starts.

  Back home, I count the days until his next visit while helping Gigi move from her place in Flatbush to an apartment two doors down from Sweetie Pies, the better to watch over her store-baby at all hours of the day and night.

  “It’s not my baby,” Gigi huffs, shaking the snow off her coat before hanging it on the hook inside the door of her new place. “It’s my boyfriend. I’m probably going to marry it.”

  I set the box full of kitchen supplies on the island with a laugh. “Stranger things have happened. Didn’t a woman marry her car on Long Island last year?”

  “No, she ate her car, piece by piece. She married a replica of the Eiffel Tower she had erected in her backyard.”

  I grimace. “Ew. That’s . . . disturbing.”

  “Yeah, I’m not an Eiffel Tower fan. If I had to marry a replica of a famous building, I’d marry Big Ben in London.” She sighs as she collapses onto her overstuffed flamingo pink couch. “He seems like a dreamboat, doesn’t he?”

  “I meant the car-eating part,” I say, “but absolutely. Big Ben is a very sexy clock. Probably has a super swoony accent too.”

  “Totally. I have great taste,” she agrees with a sigh before stretching a limp hand toward the fridge. “Cold-pizza me? Please? After all that lifting and carrying, I’m starving to death.”

  “No way. I’m taking you out for real food to celebrate your new digs and new neighborhood, and the blow-out Galentine’s Day pie orders you’ve racked up so far.”

  Gigi’s weary expression gives way to a pleased one. “Your mom is so happy. She thinks I’m a wizard. I keep telling her it’s just the new ads I put up on social media, but she won’t listen.”

  “As little as my mom understands social media advertising, you might as well be a wizard. Or a witch. I think I’d rather be a witch. Better outfits.”

  Gigi hums in agreement. “Yes. You’d rock a sexy witch look. You should try that when Jesse comes this spring. Surprise him in a pointy hat and nothing else.”

  “Halloween is probably a more appropriate time for dress-up.”

  “Anytime is a good time for dress-up.” Gigi swings her arm toward her bedroom and dramatically pronounces, “To my closet. We shall dress for dinner in feathers and pearls!”

  So, we play dress-up before we go for Indian food. I fall so deeply in love with Gigi’s cherry-red feather boa that she insists I take it home to live with me and promise to do wicked things with it.

  And I’m so glad I do.

  When Jesse lets himself into my place with his key a month later, takes one look at me posed at the kitchen table in that boa and nothing else, and drops his luggage with a thud, every minute spent shivering in the cold apartment air is worth it.

  “I’m so fucking in love with you,” he says, scooping me up and charging through my tiny living room to the bedroom.

  “Same,” I agree, laughing as he tosses me on the mattress.

  But I’m not laughing three days later when he has to rush back to L.A. to address some problems with the vintage race cars on the set of a new biopic.

  We’re good at managing the distance—staying in touch and in sync and falling more in love with every passing day—but every time we say goodbye it gets a little harder.

  I don’t want to stand on the sidewalk in front of my building and wave as his Uber lurches into traffic.

  I don’t want him to go.

  The end of spring is tougher. It’s even cooler and rainier than usual, and the flowers bursting into bloom in the park don’t lift my spirits the way they normally do.

  But every time I’m tempted to blow my nest egg on a last-minute flight, I remind myself that, soon, Jesse will be home for an entire month. He’s taking June off so we can relive all our greatest hits from last summer. We’re going to hit the beach, try a bunch of new restaurants, paint at the graffiti festival where I was lucky enough to score an entire six-by-eight chunk of wall for our next masterpiece, and head upstate to give camping another go—this time at a glamping campground with swanky tents that feature adjoining bathrooms.

  I’m not sure how you put a bathroom in a tent; I’m just glad I won’t have to brave the woods to pee in the middle of the night and that we’ll be roughing it on five-hundred thread-count sheets.

  It’s going to be the best summer ever.

  And then he’ll go away again, my inner voice mutters, but I shut that pity party down before it can get started.

  Yes, a lot of my business is tied to being in New York—my window-painting side hustle is now at least a third of my monthly revenue—but I can design menus and album covers from anywhere. If it gets too hard to be without Jesse, I can pack my bags for the West Coast.

  He’s made it clear I’m welcome any time—that he would love for me to shack up in his Hollywood Hills bungalow with him, in fact.

  But he never pressures me. He knows Gigi and I are closer than ever and that I’ve never gone more than a few days without having dinner—or at least pie—with my parents.

  I love Jesse with all my heart, but I love my family too.

  I hate that I might have to choose between them someday soon, but as Jesse’s arrival date draws closer, I put the thought out of my head.

  I’m determined to enjoy every second of our summer adventure—and our one-year anniversary.

  We made it. An entire year of loving so well that we prove life is best when it’s a bright, shiny one.

  And these days? Mine is pretty damn shiny.

  His Epilogue

  Jesse

  * * *

  California has been everything I hoped it would be.

  Profitable. Successful. Bursting with sunshine.

  And my mom’s out for a visit. We’ve just had an incredible sushi dinner before wandering the streets of Venice in the cool evening air.

  When she asks, “So, are you loving it here or what?” the answer should be easy.

  A yes ought to roll off my tongue.

  Instead, I weigh her question, my gaze drifting to the yoga studio up ahead, then to the small-batch ice cream shop next to it and the quirky card shop on the corner that also sells wall clocks and hand-crafted ukuleles.

  Last time Ruby was here, we wandered these blocks for hours. She checked out card after card in the corner store. Then, we grabbed cones and walked along the beach. That night, we returned to my Hollywood Hills home, where I bent her over the kitchen table, and we both finished a perfect day with a perfect bang.

  I do love Los Angeles.

  And yet . . . I don’t.

  “Mostl
y,” I finally answer. That feels like the truth. Mostly.

  Mom hums thoughtfully, like she’s mulling that over as we pass yet another yoga studio, this one with a yogini etched on the window. There are probably more yoga studios in Venice per capita than there are coffee shops in Seattle.

  Could Ruby do her window painting here? Would there be enough business for that to work?

  “Ooh, let’s come back here next visit,” Mom says, jerking me from my Ruby-colored thoughts. “I hear the hot yoga at this studio is life-affirmingly amazing and also super-hot.”

  Super-hot. Damn, that reminds me of Ruby.

  Life-affirming fits her too. She lives her life to the fullest, embracing work, friends, and love with a gorgeous determination that makes my heart tick and my mind blaze.

  “Sounds perfect for you, Mom,” I say, returning to the conversation.

  “Speaking of things that are perfect for us . . . are you saying this whole long-distance thing with Ruby isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?” Mom is nothing if not direct.

  I draw a deep breath; I need it for what I’m about to admit.

  The godawful truth.

  “I miss her,” I say, uttering that combination of words I say even more often than I expected to.

  I miss you, Ruby. I fucking miss you. I miss you so much, sweetheart.

  Long-distance relationships are wonderful and horrible at the same time. On the one hand, I’m stoked we figured out how to make us work, through FaceTime and airline miles and letters and texts and emails.

  And sure, at first the long-distance relationship was fun, in a roller-coaster ride kind of way. It was wildly sexy and exciting to rip each other’s clothes off after pent-up time away.

  But we don’t need to be apart to have great sex.

  Now, nearly a year in, the missing is too constant. The ache of not seeing her is like riding that same roller coaster for the three-hundredth time in a day. It’s making me sick to my fucking stomach.

  My mom and I stop at the crosswalk, look left, look right.

  “It’s hard to be away from the one you love.” She pats my shoulder as we head across the road. “So what are you going to do about it?”

  That’s the question.

  I need to do something about this missing.

  I need to figure out how to get Ruby here. Or I need to go there.

  That evening, after I take my mom out for ice cream closer to home, I email Max and start to formulate a plan.

  A month later

  * * *

  It’s endless, my flight. Only six hours, but it feels like it takes six years. Maybe that’s how it goes when you figure out it’s time to put it all on the line.

  When you realize that the thing you’ll most regret doing is not doing something.

  Will it be easy?

  Who the hell knows?

  But easy isn’t the point of life.

  Loving and learning and growing and making new dreams for yourself and the people you love is. I have so many dreams for Ruby and me, I’m going to need a Dodge Challenger, with its massive trunk space, for all of them.

  I want to spill my hopes the second I get off the plane.

  But now isn’t the time.

  I have to wait one more day.

  Now is the time, however, to haul her into my arms, and smother her in deep, dirty kisses.

  She’s waiting for me at JFK on the other side of security, holding up a big hand-drawn sign.

  * * *

  Squeeze the day. And squeeze me while you’re at it?

  * * *

  I crack up, so ready to spend the month of June with this woman, so eager to tackle new adventures that have nothing to do with a list and everything to do with how we want to live our lives. When I cross security, she drops the sign and jumps me. She wraps her arms and legs around me like a koala and holds on tight, and instantly, everything is right in the universe.

  I wrap her up in my arms. Kiss her hard. Thank my lucky stars that she’s mine.

  Then I set her down and give her a proper kiss. Cupping her jaw, I bring my lips to hers. She melts against me.

  When I let go, she smiles as wide as the city. “That kiss is almost justification for you living across the country.”

  I smack her ass. “That’s what I was thinking too,” I say, even though that’s not at all true.

  But I don’t want to give a single hint about the plan I’ve hatched.

  I’d like to have sex with her in the Lyft.

  But that’s pretty tacky.

  Not to mention gross. And rude.

  And I can wait. I like just talking to Ruby as much as all the other stuff.

  On the drive to Brooklyn, I ask her to catch me up on everything.

  She arches a skeptical brow. “Like everything that happened in the twelve hours since I last spoke with you?”

  I roll my eyes. “Woman, it’s not the same. Tell me all the things you don’t tell me over the phone.”

  Her forehead creases. “Hate to break it to you, but I’m an open book. I kind of tell you everything.” Then, her eyes sparkle, and she grabs my thigh. “Wait! I do have something to tell you. Gigi met someone last night. Apparently, she had quite the evening with a dashing stranger.”

  She proceeds to serve up some details about a Henry Cavill-esque guy who can solve a Rubix Cube in thirty seconds. “In short, he’s perfect for her.”

  “That sounds very Gigi,” I say.

  “I know, right? I can’t wait to find out when she’s going to see him next. I have a feeling about this one. Like he could be the one for her.” Her nose wrinkles. “Unless it turns out he secretly hates pie or something. Ooh, wouldn’t that be scandalous?”

  “Yes, but let’s back it up a sentence or two. Do you believe in that?”

  She blinks. “People who hate pie? Yes, they absolutely exist. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s something about the texture of the filling or—”

  “No.” I roll my eyes. “The one. You think it’s a real thing?”

  It’s her turn to roll her eyes. “You know I do, weirdo. You’re the one.”

  I smile. Hard. “Yeah. You’re the one too.”

  “Duh,” she says dryly, even as she snuggles closer to my side.

  Look at us—a pair of lovebirds.

  A lucky pair indeed.

  When we reach Brooklyn, we set a world record for speed in removing only enough clothes to slam our bodies together on her kitchen counter. Why bother heading to the bedroom when the counter is the perfect height for me to get close to her.

  As I fuck and make love to the woman of my dreams, my certainty for tomorrow’s plan intensifies.

  This woman, these nights, these days—it’s all I’ll ever want, and I hope she wants it too.

  The next morning, after we devour French toast and savor coffee, I pull her onto my lap in the kitchen, nuzzling her hair. “I have a surprise for you this afternoon.”

  “It’s not a Prince Albert, is it? Or is it?”

  “No, I’m not getting my penis pierced.”

  She sniffs. “Huh. Then I’m stumped.”

  Laughing, I drop a kiss to her forehead. “Meet me at two and I’ll un-stump you. I’ll text you the address. I need to go to see Max.”

  I slip away to meet my lawyer friend for cinnamon and sugar cortados and to cement my final plans.

  She’s on the dot, rapping on the door as the wall clock with cherries for numbers chimes on the hour. I found it for her in the Venice shop, and sent it home with my mom.

  I swing open the door, my pulse jittery. Ruby’s eyes are wide and curious.

  “What on earth is this?” She peers inside, scanning the small space for clues.

  That’s the coolest thing about this place. It’s not quite obvious from the outside what’s behind door number one.

  But it’s about to become as clear as the blue sky painted on the ceiling.

  Nerves flicker through me, racing across my body.

  Wil
l she like what I’ve done?

  I thread my fingers through hers and show her around a small but well-lit artist studio.

  “Here’s a standing desk,” I say, patting the solid wood.

  “Some of my best ideas come while I’m not sitting,” she says, her voice pitching upward as she invites me to fill in the dots.

  I gesture to a peace lily in the corner, next to a south-facing window that bathes the room in sunlight.

  “I like peace lilies,” she says, in that same I’m curious what you’re up to tone.

  “And the cherry clock you liked in Venice.”

  “I do love that clock.”

  Time to tell her. “What do you think about a studio of your very own? A place to come where you’ll have more space to work, room to meet with clients, and even host a little gallery show if you want to?”

  Her irises sparkle with excitement, but questions too. “It’s amazing, but I don’t think I can afford it, Jesse. This space is gorgeous, however—”

  “You don’t have to afford it.”

  She swallows, takes her time, then whispers reverently, “What do you mean? What are you up to?”

  Nerves rush through me again, but they settle quickly.

  This is it.

  “This could be your studio,” I say.

  “My studio,” she repeats, her tone awed.

  I take her hand, leading her to the door on the other side of the airy space. I wrap my hand around the knob. “That is, if you don’t mind spending time with the guy who’s about to buy this garage.”

  Her jaw slackens. She tries to speak, but no sounds come out.

  I open the other door into an adjoining garage. It’s empty. No cars, but the counters and tools reveal what could be here.

  If she says yes.

  Her hand flies to her mouth. “Jesse,” she whispers around her fingers, then lets them fall. “What did you do?”