by Sarah Title
Except that he didn’t really not like her when they met. He thought she was weird and prickly and that she would be terrible to work with, but he didn’t dislike her. He had the feeling that she disliked him, but he didn’t dislike her.
She definitely didn’t dislike him now. She might not want to hang out and be besties after next week, but she’d stopped giving him that mildly horrified, completely puzzled look that said, “I know we are both human beings but I do not understand at all how you operate.”
Man, he could even interpret her facial expressions.
She did make a lot of facial expressions. It was what got her here in the first place.
He was pretty grateful for the facial expressions. He dropped her hair and twisted so he was lying on his side, facing her. Even with her eyes closed, she made a face of displeasure as she was dislodged from his chest to the pillow.
“Stop looking at me,” she muttered.
“I’m not.”
“I can feel it.”
“It’s just because you’re so cute when you’re asleep.”
She turned and buried her face in the pillow. He thought he heard her mumble something, but he wasn’t sure that he heard right. Surely she didn’t want to do that to him, after he had so clearly rocked her socks last night?
Just to make sure, he ran his hand up her hip, feeling the skin still warm from sleep.
She sighed, and he let his hands explore a little more.
This time, when she turned to look at him, she gave him a sleepy smile. “Remember when we hated each other?”
“Nope.”
“Me, neither.”
He pulled her a little closer, kissed her gently.
“This is weird.”
That was not what he liked to hear when he was trying to get a little morning nookie.
“Don’t you think it’s weird?” She put her hand on his chest and looked up at him. “Think about the circumstances that got us to this point.”
“I don’t really want to think about circumstances.” He lifted her hand and kissed the pulse at her wrist. Then he leaned in and kissed the pulse at her neck.
She put her arms around him, but she kept talking. “Sometimes I think I really do get in my own way too much.” She sure did. He nipped her neck, let his hands get a little creative under the sheets. She gasped a little. But she kept talking. “Left on my own, I never would have done any of this. I had to get a push from Marcie and Dave and Starr—”
“The dog?”
“She’s a very persuasive dog.”
Clearly, he needed to work on his persuasiveness, if she was still thinking about a dog.
“I even got a push from Maria.”
Colin’s hands stopped their explorations. His heart might have stopped, too.
“Maria?” Surely not the Maria.
“Don’t laugh, but you know that advice column, Take a Letter, Maria?”
Yeah, he knew it.
“I wrote her a letter. When I was contemplating your offer.”
“Was that before or after your heart-to-heart with the dog?” he asked, hoping he sounded light and breezy. He sure didn’t feel light and breezy.
“She told me I should live in the gray areas. That’s where all the interesting stuff happens.”
Oh, God. He remembered that letter. It was someone trying to decide between dying on the sword for her principles or seizing an unexpected opportunity.
Of course that was Bernie.
Of course she listened to Maria. Maria was contrary and ornery. She could be Bernie’s sister.
“She was right,” Bernie said softly, then draped her leg over his hip and started to explore his pulse points. He hoped she didn’t notice that his heart was about to beat out of his chest.
He had to tell her.
This was definitely going to ruin any chances he had of morning nookie.
“Bernie.”
“Mmm.”
“I have to tell you something.”
“Are you married?” she murmured into his neck while her hands slid under the covers.
“Uh . . . no.”
“Then it can wait.”
“It’ll just take a second.”
She turned her face so the pillow muffled her groan, then propped up her head, her face pasted with a falsely bright smile.
“Good morning, Colin. What is so urgent that it couldn’t wait until after morning nookie?”
He put his hand on her naked hip under the covers. For some reason, he thought that skin to skin contact would make the news go down smoother. Like a spoonful of sugar, but skin.
Why was he doing this now? Why was he ruining a perfectly good afterglow with confessions? He couldn’t explain it, like he couldn’t explain anything about his relationship with Bernie. He just wanted her to know him.
“You know how you wrote that letter to Maria?”
“You mean the letter I just now described to you? Yes, I do. That feels like forever ago. God, that was back when I was just a meme. That was before I was a dating sensation.”
“Sensational.” He kissed her nose. He couldn’t help it.
“I shouldn’t have been embarrassed about writing that e-mail,” she said, her eyes drifting closed. “I love Maria. She always gives good advice.”
This was promising, he hoped. Maybe he was just desperate.
“Do you ever wonder who Maria is?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
He couldn’t decide if this was easier with her eyes closed. On the one hand, he didn’t feel like she was looking into the depths of his soul. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure if she was listening.
“I always pictured someone like Maddie,” she said sleepily. “But like, Maddie’s wild older sister. Someone who’s seen it all and done it all and is now content to just grace womankind with all of her hard-earned knowledge.”
Bernie was the only woman he knew who could form complete sentences when she was half-asleep.
Another thing he liked about her. Was that a weird thing to like?
“I know who she is,” he said, and watched, fascinated, as that statement registered behind her closed eyes.
She opened them, and he saw that she was dying of curiosity.
“You do?”
He nodded, suddenly very, very nervous. She thought Maria was a wise old lady. Well, why shouldn’t she? That was what he was going for. But now that it was too late to turn back, he was afraid that she would be mad. That she would feel like he’d betrayed her by doing this. That she would think that he was trying to pull a fast one on all of womankind. Why was he doing this to himself? Why did he have to tell her? He hadn’t told anyone, not even Steph, and he told her everything. Mostly.
He should keep this a secret.
But he didn’t want to keep any secrets from Bernie.
Well, he thought. It was fun while it lasted.
“It’s me.”
“Hmm?” She still looked curious, but now also confused.
“I’m Maria.” There. That should clear it up.
“You’re . . . what?” Everything ran across her face so quickly, he couldn’t even properly read it all: anger, maybe. Definitely more confusion. Surprise. And a lot more that he couldn’t figure out.
“I write that column,” he said, banging that final nail into his coffin. “I’m Take a Letter, Maria.”
She turned her face into her pillow again and he heard muffled snorts, and he thought maybe she was having a stroke.
When she turned back to him, her eyes were wet with tears. “You?” she asked him, and he saw that she was laughing. She was laughing at him.
Well, at least she wasn’t mad.
He shrugged, running his hand up to her waist, then back down her hip again. “I was trying to figure out women. It was just kind of a lark. Then somehow someone found it, and people started sending in actual questions and . . . you’re not mad?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“I’ve been leading a sec
ret double life. Most women would be mad.”
She put a hand on his chest. “I think you know that I am not most women.”
“No, you’re definitely not.” He pulled her closer and took a deep breath of that sweet spot at her pulse, then kissed her there.
“This is interesting, though,” she said.
He almost hated to ask. “Interesting how?”
“Hold on, let me break this down. You’re a man—”
“Yup.”
“—giving women advice in the guise of an older, wiser woman. What does it mean that I thought your advice was really good?”
“That I’m a really smart guy?”
“Should I feel tricked? I mean, your sass was one thing when it was a fellow woman doling it out. But a man . . .”
“It wasn’t to trick. It was just . . . it’s just for fun.”
“Hmm.” She wrapped her arm around his neck and pulled him closer. “I don’t know if I trust your idea of fun.”
“Hey!”
“You told me dating was fun. What has been fun about dating so far?”
“Umm . . . it was fun to get yelled at by a puppeteer?”
“I don’t know if that counts as fun. But it was definitely a special experience. Dear Maria, thank you for giving me the unique experience of being verbally abused by a militant vegan with his hand up a stuffed squirrel’s butt.”
“Is this going to be a thing now?”
“Me calling you Maria? Probably,” she said with a smile.
“You have a really messed-up idea of fun.”
“You’re the one with a Mrs. Doubtfire complex.”
She smiled even wider, but then she kissed him and rolled him onto his back and it turned out that they did agree on some things that were fun. Mind-blowing, sheet-grabbing, sweaty, naked fun.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“OH, GLORIOUS SUN GODS, we worship thee. Bestow thy blessings upon thy humble, worthless, melanin-starved servants!”
“Knock it off, you’re blocking my sun.”
Bernie smiled into her book. Dave and Marcie really were like an old married couple. Except Al and Maddie didn’t bicker as much as these two did.
She’d woken up this morning to a long to-do list and heavy fog. Her plan was to spend the day doing laundry and getting organized for her return to work. She’d been off for a little more than three weeks, and really off—no e-mail, no professional journal reading; she hadn’t even checked her favorite academic blogs. She wondered what had been happening in the world of academic librarianship. Maybe everyone had decided on open access journals while she was gone.
Maybe they’d turned to Maria for advice, and she’d . . . hmm. What could Colin tell them about libraries? He’d picked up some of her feminism; maybe he’d picked up some of her professional interests, too.
She still couldn’t believe Colin was Maria. It made her laugh every time she thought of it. Colin! Giving out all that good advice! Who knew he had it in him?
“Funny book?”
Bernie squinted up at Marcie. Her friend tilted the cover up and read the title. “The Trial by Franz Kafka. Sounds hilarious.”
Bernie flipped the book over. Marcie was right. Huh. She thought she’d grabbed a much more fun book on her way out the door. Well, it was their fault, not hers. She was supposed to be spending her afternoon doing chores so she could be clear and focused on her movie date tonight and not thinking about the mountain of laundry she had to do or how messed up her sheets were because she and Colin left them in a tangled mess . . .
They didn’t know about her . . . whatever with Colin. But she couldn’t blame them for dragging her out in this weather. It was foggy in her neighborhood, as usual, but in the Mission it was hot and sunny, like an actual summer day. When the city’s weird microclimates gave them a window of summer, she felt a moral and meteorological obligation to participate.
Dolores Park was packed, but enjoyably so. There were blanket farms everywhere, with families and friends and dogs all set up. Starr was having a field day letting everyone know where her territory was. Someone had a badminton tournament going. There were multiple Frisbees and soccer balls flying around. It was a good day.
“Bernie! Quit reading! We’re celebrating!”
“I am celebrating,” she said, tossing her book—which she hadn’t really been reading—aside. She lay back and let the sun warm her face.
“We should celebrate with drinks and dancing!”
“I’m going to celebrate with knocking your lights out if you don’t calm down,” Marcie told Dave. “And get out of my sun.”
“Did you put on sunblock?” he asked her.
“Shut up.”
“Uh-uh. I’m not nursing your pathetic sunburn again. And if you get skin cancer, I’m leaving you for another man.”
Marcie grumbled something that Bernie couldn’t hear, but she reached for the tube of sunblock and slathered it on her shoulders and nose.
“Thank you, my love,” Dave said, and he flopped down on the blanket next to her. He pulled off his shirt and turned his back to her. She grumbled again, but squirted more sunblock into her hands and rubbed it into his back.
“Don’t fall asleep, Bernie,” he warned her. “I want to grill you on your romantic foibles.”
“Ugh,” Bernie said, and tossed her arm over her eyes. “I’m not asleep.”
Someone, from somewhere in the park, was picking a ukulele. Bernie recognized the strains of a recent pop song and started humming along.
“Is she singing?” Marcie asked. “Dang, you better ask about those romantic foibles.”
“There are no foibles to talk about,” Bernie insisted.
“Then why are you so happy?”
“I don’t know. Sun gods?”
“Get real.” Marcie leaned over and pulled Bernie’s arm away from her face. “You seem to have much less agita than usual.”
“Agita?”
“Yes. Usually, you look like you’re kind of having fun but you’re always ready for the other shoe to drop. But now you’re smiling. Quit smiling! It’s weirding me out!”
“Stop,” Bernie laughed. “I don’t know. It’s nice out. I’m happy.”
“Must be all those pheromones,” Dave suggested. “Being around all that man-energy.”
“Hardly,” she insisted. But maybe that was it. Her last few dates hadn’t necessarily gone any better than her first week of dating. In fact, a few of them had gone decidedly worse. But somehow it seemed less dire. Less hopeless. That was it. Despite having absolutely no evidence that she was on some kind of path to romantic success, she felt hopeful.
Hopeful of what? That she’d end up with a relationship? That wasn’t it. She didn’t care about being in a relationship. That wasn’t the goal of this experiment anyway. She just wanted to prove that she was not undateable. And she wasn’t. She was totally dateable, and maybe, when this whole thing was over, she might go out on more dates. It might not be as much fun, without Colin to debrief to afterward . . . well, that wasn’t always fun. Infuriating.
No, it was fun.
Damn, what was she going to do when this was over? What would she do when she didn’t have Colin to argue with, to prove that she, while technically dateable, was not just one of those women whose primary goal in life was to pair off with the first guy who didn’t totally repulse her? If Colin didn’t offer his unsolicited opinion, how was she supposed to form her own opinion by arguing the exact opposite?
Ugh, she was totally one of those women.
Totally dependent on a man.
“Now she looks pissed,” Dave said. “I swear, I would pay so much to hear what goes on in that head of yours.”
“Why pay when you can see it on her face?” Marcie asked.
“Do you think I’m getting normal?” Bernie asked, sitting up.
Dave grabbed Starr as she started to run after an errant tennis ball. “Uh,” Dave said. “How do I put this nicely? There’s no way in hell yo
u could ever be normal.”
“Thank you,” she said. She was pretty sure she meant it.
“What do you mean, ‘normal’?” Marcie asked.
“I don’t know. I’m going out on all these dates and it’s making me happy. Am I just like all those other women out there?” She waved at the population of San Francisco, now happily frolicking in Dolores Park.
“Do you mean like other straight women? Other women with a healthy sex drive who pursue the means to sate their sexual appetites?” Marcie asked.
“I mean like all those women whose primary goal in life is to get a man.”
Dave flopped back onto the blanket with a disgusted sigh. Starr settled happily on his stomach.
“Bernie, you have got to get this chip off your shoulder. You’re going out on dates. You’re making out with a few guys.”
And sleeping with one, Bernie thought. She just hadn’t told anybody about that yet.
“That doesn’t mean you’re signing a June Cleaver contract. You’re not on a path to marriage, and even if you were, who cares? You’re obsessed with being defined by your singleness. That’s just as bad as being defined by a relationship.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is. You’re sticking to some arbitrary, intellectual definition of who you think you should be, instead of being who you are.”
“And who I am is in a relationship?”
“No! Grr, I’m going to hit you.”
“Don’t hit her, Marce. What she means is, you are you, whether you’re single or in a relationship. Bernie is Bernie. Single Bernie is the same as Boyfriend Bernie. The constant is Bernie. Get it?”
She got it. She sort of got it. She got it in her head, anyway.
And, truth be told, she got it in her heart, too. That was probably what that happy feeling was about, way back a few minutes ago when she had allowed herself to be happy for no reason. Because she had a reason. The reason was that she was Bernie, and she was dating, but she was still Bernie. And she was sleeping with Colin, and she was still Bernie.
“I can’t wait until you guys go through an identity crisis so I can console you about it,” she said, but her bite didn’t really have any bite to it.
