Can I See You Again?

by Allison Morgan

  “Fire away.”

  She slides on her jeweled reader glasses—something she likely denied needing for as long as possible—and refers to an e-mail on her iPad. “Tomorrow’s interview will start with you. They want to highlight the woman behind the business before shifting to your work and your success.”

  “Okay.” Easy enough.

  “They’ll ask why you do what you do, that sort of thing. They’ll interview you here, let me find the time.” She scrolls through the rest of the e-mail, then pulls off her glasses. “Good Lord, they’ll arrive at eight a.m. What a god-awful time of the morning to be presentable. Don’t worry, I’ll bring Bloody Marys.” She returns her glasses to the bridge of her nose. “They’ll ask about the book, and we want them to. But we don’t want to give too much away about the content or offer too many of your tips. We want to tease the readers. Lift the skirt and show a little leg, but not the kitty in the middle. Make sense?”

  Oddly enough it does.

  “They’ll want a photo. So do something with your bangs.”

  Andrew nods in agreement.

  What’s wrong with my bangs?

  She removes her glasses again and looks at me. “Come to think of it, your eyes are red. Your face is splotchy and swollen, too. Have you gained weight? Are you preggo?”

  “No.”

  “Stoned?”

  “God, no.”

  “All right, then. I guess that covers it for now.” She takes a long sip of coffee, then stands, noticing the broken vase and flowers in the trash can. “What happened?”

  “That . . . um . . . ?” I’m searching my mind for a way out, something plausible and convincing, but I draw a blank under her demanding glare. The only thing that comes to mind is Sean. And the fact that he’s no longer my Sean. But I can’t tell her that. I can’t walk around proclaiming to be a master at love and relationships, then say, “Want to hear a funny story? Last night my boyfriend dumped me.”

  Actually, it’s not that funny.

  Andrew comes to my rescue. “Damn vase had a crack in it. Water leaked all over Bree’s desk. Even dribbled on my shoes.”

  “That’s right. Ruined a picture, too. I didn’t want it spilling all over everything else, so I dropped the vase into the trash can.” Would’ve shattered it with a baseball bat had I the chance.

  Randi gathers her purse. “For a moment I feared you’d say you had a fight with whoever sent you those flowers. Or worse, broke up.”

  Andrew’s laugh borderlines on a cackle. “That’s hilarious.”

  “Aspiring bestsellers say all sorts of things to make it to the top. Remember that bogus memoir from the druggie years back? Went on Oprah and everything only to find out he made everything up. All of it.” She glances at my naked ring finger. Her lips draw tight and she narrows her eyes on me, forming a thin line across her brow. “Just to be clear, you do have someone in your life, right?”

  “Yes. Yes, she does,” Andrew says, avoiding my openmouthed stare.

  “Why did I even ask? You’re too beautiful not to. I’ll see you tomorrow, eight a.m. sharp.” Randi hurries toward the door, turns, and says, “I look forward to meeting your man.”

  “My what?”

  “Your man. The paper wants him here as well.”

  I tug at my ear. “Um, why?”

  “It adds the element of credibility, proof that a successful matchmaker who preaches and orders people around is in love herself.”

  Is this a nightmare? I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, but I don’t wake from a bad dream. Nothing changes except for now I have a sore spot in my mouth. “Um . . . Randi, wait.”

  “Yes?”

  “You see, uh . . . tiny problem . . . and you’re gonna get a kick out of this.” I start to laugh.

  “Spill it. I’ve got work to do.”

  “Yes, that’s just it. My boyfriend, the man who exists and is madly in love with me . . . like, over-the-top crazy about me, well . . . he’s . . . he’s working. Can’t get away, I’m afraid. Such short notice and all.”

  My neck itches the moment the words leave my mouth. A side effect of when I lie. It’s why I never play poker and always dodge Jo’s asking me if I think Martin is “the cutest thing in the whole wide world.”

  Randi folds her arms across her chest.

  She doesn’t believe me.

  “Very important man,” Andrew adds. “A doctor.”

  “Doctor?” Randi says. “That’s interesting. Tell me more.”

  “He’s a . . . a . . . urologist,” Andrew says.

  Urologist?

  He nudges my shoulder and whispers, “Say something.”

  “Um . . . that’s right. He has a surgery scheduled tomorrow morning. A penis transplant.” Did I just say that? I scratch at my tender skin.

  Randi shrugs and says, “Well, I’m sorry, he’ll have to figure something out. It’s a condition of the contract. Didn’t you read page six?”

  “Yes, but I don’t recall specific mention of a boyfriend requirement.”

  “It mentions you providing access to all aspects of your life, professional and personal. Now, I made myself clear. Did I not?”

  “He’ll be there,” Andrew says.

  “He sure as shit better be. Or the deal is off. Toodles.” The door closes behind her.

  “He’ll be there?” I practically shout at Andrew. “Who will be there? Who?”

  “At least I didn’t say he had a scheduled penis transplant. Do they even do such a thing?” Andrew covers his crotch with his hands.

  “What have I gotten myself into? Why didn’t I just tell the truth?”

  “Oh, c’mon. It’s a tiny white lie.”

  Easy for him to say. A tiny white lie got me caught smoking cigarettes after school instead of attending my Girl Scouts meeting in fifth grade. A tiny white lie got me fired from Burger-a-rama my sophomore year. A tiny white lie got my parents killed.

  “This is going to come back and bite me in the butt. In case you forgot, I have no boyfriend. Oh, God. I’m having a heart attack.” I press his palm against my heart. “Feel that? I’m having my first chest pain.”

  “You can’t back out now.”

  “Christ, Andrew, how am I going to get through this? How am I supposed to find a boyfriend in twenty-four hours?”

  seven

  My panic attack subsided. My chest pains stopped, too. So I’m not getting out of this jam with a heart attack. Can’t a girl catch a break?

  “What about him?” Andrew points to a tall man in a navy blue suit, with a frosting of gray hair above his temple, sipping a Bud Light at the bar. “He’s cute.”

  Andrew persuaded me to close the office early and numb the pain of my shitty day with a pitcher of happy hour margaritas. “For the last time, I am not going to hit on a guy and ask him to stop by my office tomorrow morning and then say, ‘Wanna pretend we’re crazy in love and you’re the country’s leading expert in penis transplants?’”

  “I know it sounds nuts.” He chuckles at his pun. “But you don’t have much choice.”

  “What if he’s a serial killer?”

  “Do you honestly think a mass murderer pops into T.G.I. Friday’s for half-price chicken wings?” He sips his drink. “You could ask Sean.”

  “I’d rather you squirt acid in my eyes, thank you very much.”

  “C’mon, he screwed up. Let him make it up to you.”

  “That’s enough tequila for you.” I slide his margarita over toward me.

  He slides it back. “It’s not a bad idea.”

  “It’s a horrible idea. Sean knows he hurt me emotionally; there’s no way in hell I’ll admit he’s hurting me professionally, too.” I fiddle with my napkin. “It wouldn’t work, anyway.”

  “Who, Sean?”

  “No, him.” I point m
y straw toward the man at the bar. “He moves his hands too much when he talks, and he drinks Bud Light. Hard to respect a guy who drinks watered-down beer.” Sean drinks Guinness. I force thoughts of him from my head. I am not going to let him sour my evening. I release a long sigh. “This whole situation completely, unequivocally sucks booty.”

  “Good thing your fake boyfriend is a urologist.”

  “Technically, he’d need to be a proctologist. And that’s not funny.”

  “Yes, it is.” Andrew winks. “Pick another guy here, then.”

  My phone rings. The caller ID reads Lawrence Chambers.

  “I gotta take this.” I step away. On top of my breakup and the fiasco I webbed myself into, Jo’s IRS letter that I’d convinced myself was a scam still niggles at the back of my brain. Thanks to my ex-boyfriend’s ill-timed mental breakdown—not that there’s ever a well-timed mental breakdown—I can no longer ask him. So this morning I e-mailed his colleague that I remembered him mentioning.

  “Lawrence Chambers is a bulldog,” Sean had said.

  Not sure if bulldog is a good or bad thing, but the way Sean carved into his steak, tearing it into pieces, suggested Lawrence might be worth a call.

  “Hello, Mr. Chambers, thanks for phoning back.”

  “My secretary said something about a tax lien?” His voice is slow and thick like a cup of cold diner coffee. Something tells me he sits relaxed in a leather wingback chair, stroking a too-short tie, and inhaling puffs of an expensive cigar with a vintage set of law books lining the wall behind him.

  “Yes, I’m inquiring on my grandmother’s behalf. It’s possible I’m overreacting, but the letter says to contact the IRS to prevent loss of property. My grandmother thinks it’s the real thing and frankly I can’t tell myself. I just want to make sure.”

  “Is it a 1058 form?”

  I pull the letter from my purse and refer to the number on the upper right of the page. “Yes. Is that significant?”

  “E-mail the document and I’ll make a few calls to confirm the validity.”

  “Okay, I appreciate this.”

  “To be clear, you’re officially retaining my legal services?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “I’ll need a check for twenty-five hundred dollars. That’ll get me started.”

  Jesus. How much to get you finished? Earlier today I received confirmation from the advisor that the bulk of my savings account was transferred into the investment fund. Deducting another $2,500 squeezes things a bit tight. But with no other choice, I agree.

  “My secretary will forward the contract,” he says. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Okay, thank you. Um . . . Mr. Chambers . . . should we be worried?”

  I’m too late.

  He clicked off.

  “Don’t frown like that,” Andrew says as I climb onto the bar stool. “Botox is expensive.”

  “Look at this.”

  Andrew scans the letter before handing it back to me. “You know my literacy rate is barely higher than a scrappy eleven-year-old. What does it mean?”

  “I’m not totally sure. It’s the letter that upset Jo yesterday, and I have a feeling it wasn’t her first notice. That call was from a lawyer I hired.”

  “This amount, nearly fifty thousand dollars, she owes that?”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “What’d the lawyer say?”

  “He’s getting back to me.” I skim the letter again. “But I don’t think it’s gonna be with good news.”

  “Does she have the money?”

  “Not unless she knocked over a couple 7-Elevens that I don’t know about. She and G-pa took out a reverse mortgage on their house years ago. There’s no equity in the property. As far as savings, she’s lived off her social security and my G-pa’s pension for years. I take care of the extras. So no, she doesn’t have the money.”

  “Okay, well, you said yourself there’s a lot of swindlers out there, feasting on old people. Let’s wait to hear from this lawyer guy before freaking out. How about we focus on your more immediate threat?”

  Hee-haw . . . Hee-haw . . . hee-haw.

  “Speak of the devil,” he says.

  I silence my phone without looking at the screen.

  “You can’t ignore him forever.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says you, if you weren’t acting so stubborn.”

  “Is it wrong that I want him to suffer? That I want him to stew in misery and lose sleep and wear the same shirt for a week and get all pale and sallow and sunken cheeks and have his friends tell him he looks awful and smells awful before begging me to take him back?”

  “No. There’s nothing wrong with that at all.” He clinks his glass with mine. “Okay, so as far as the paper goes, what about asking a favor from an old boyfriend? What about that guy from college? Tim or Todd or something?”

  “Troy.”

  “Yeah, what about him?”

  “Married.”

  “Happily?”

  My scowl reveals my answer.

  “I could ask one of my guy friends.”

  “To do what? Fall in love with me in a few hours?”

  “Most people do.” He nudges my shoulder with his hand. “C’mon, now, we’ve got to think of something.”

  He’s right. I called Randi a couple of hours ago and explained . . . okay, begged . . . that my boyfriend couldn’t make the interview and can’t we exclude that provision from the contract? I sounded professional and resolute.

  She had none of it.

  The TV signals that it’s six p.m. I swallow the last of my margarita. “I better go.”

  “You’re still going?”

  “To my Q&A? Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t know, maybe because your life is a total wreck at the moment.”

  “Thank you for reminding me. I’d forgotten for five whole seconds.” I slide my purse onto my shoulder. “Being with the group will clear my head. Besides, you know I haven’t missed but one or two meetings all year. They need me.”

  “You need them.”

  It’s true. I started the weekly Q&A sessions months ago as an added service for my clients, an impromptu way to pose relationship topics and bounce ideas around. We meet at the library and even though the same handful of people show up, a small group of my older clients, I don’t have the heart to cancel, because one, I’m a sucker for happy old people and number two . . . well, I guess there’s only one reason. They smuggle in a Thermos full of wine and we share a few insights about relationships, but the conversation always turns to laughter and memories from their younger years. I’m like an adopted daughter to them. At least, that’s how I feel.

  I kiss him on the cheek and say, “I’m off. Take care of you.”

  “Take care of you.”

  Twenty minutes later, I walk through the sliding doors and into the library. The hushed corner chats and soft-stepping librarians do nothing to drown out voices ricocheting through my head. Please, baby . . . talk to me. Final Notice. Five-week spread. Bring your man.

  But as I turn the corner and wave at my handful of attendees sitting around a square table in a glass-walled conference room, sneaking sips of Chardonnay from their matching travel tumblers that Gwen, the youngest older lady, bought on clearance at BevMo, my mood lifts.

  “So, you are stalking me.”

  I spin around and see Nixon stepping toward me in a black T-shirt, weathered jeans, and leather-soled flip-flops. I’ve never seen him in casual clothes and I’m pleased to notice he’s got strong forearms and solid feet. He looks good. Sipping-a-Corona-in-a-hammock good.

  For half a second, I let my eyes wander down his shirt, which stretches tight against his biceps and drapes over his stomach. I imagine him grasping the back neck collar and pullin
g the shirt off overhead in one smooth move, revealing a tan chiseled chest. I wonder what his skin smells like after a day at the beach.

  “Bree?”

  “Um . . . hey, there, Nixon.” His skin after a day at the beach? Where the hell did that come from? Last time I say yes to a Grand Marnier float in my margarita for only two dollars more. I shake clear my thoughts and smile, deciding the laid-back look will be a nice side of Nixon for Sara to see.

  It’s then that a sandy-haired six-, maybe seven-year-old boy darts from the comic book section, dragging a Quicksilver backpack. He grasps Nixon’s leg. The two share the same shape nose.

  His son? He never mentioned a boy. A child is a game-changer. As his love facilitator, I need to know about these things, about all aspects of his life.

  “Who are you?” the little boy asks.

  “I’m Bree.” I smile at him. “Who are you?”

  He says nothing, leaning closer against Nixon’s thigh.

  “Your son?”

  “No.” Nixon tousles the boy’s hair. “My nephew.”

  “Ah.”

  “This little dude takes reading lessons once a week and then we stuff our face with pizza.”

  “Uncle Nixon lets me have soda.”

  “We don’t need no stinkin’ teeth. Am I right?” Nixon jokes. The two high-five.

  “I’ve never seen you two here before.”

  “His instructor switched the time. We were coming Thursdays.”

  The boy, totally bored with our conversation, begins to search through his backpack.

  A swoosh sound from an incoming e-mail triggers Nixon to reach for his phone. He scrolls through a message, ignoring me and the library’s TURN OFF YOUR CELL PHONE sign.

  “What happens if your phone isn’t within reach? Panic attack? Shortness of breath? Spotted vision?”

  “My work is important.”

  “Speaking of important, ready for your date with Sara?”

  “Actually, I have a budget meeting—”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “Okay, okay.” He tosses his hands in surrender. “I’ll take her to dinner.”