Writing Mr. Right

by T. K. Leigh

  “Why?” Brooklyn scrunched her brows.

  “Because it was crap.”

  “No. I mean, why did you try to write without a muse? You’ve always seemed pretty insistent on having one.”

  “It was unavoidable,” I lied, hiding my eyes from theirs.

  I swore I’d never tell another soul what had happened with one of my arrangements. If Drew knew the shit the slimeball of a politician I was seeing tried to pull, I was fairly certain the asshole would have required facial reconstruction surgery. I knew my approach to dating was unconventional, at best, and there was a certain risk involved, but that could be said of normal relationships, as well. Regardless, the incident unsettled me to the point of temporarily ditching the whole muse thing.

  “I procrastinated and had to write a book in about four days. As luck would have it, it was the four days Aunt Flo decided to come visit,” I added.

  Drew eyed me. “We don’t have an Aunt Flo.”

  Brooklyn and I giggled. My brother could be somewhat naïve at times. All men wore blinders when it came to things they’d rather not think about.

  “Use your brain,” I encouraged him.

  He shook his head, his brows still furrowed.

  “My vagina was bleeding,” I said loudly. Other people waiting for the subway looked in our direction. “So there was no getting laid. I mean, I guess I could have, but my sheets would have looked like a crime scene.”

  “Jesus, Molly.” Drew looked away, blushing, his tall stature shrinking. “A word of advice for tonight. Most men don’t want to hear about…bleeding vaginas.”

  I placed a hand on my hip as the train came to stop. “That just proves my point.” I stepped into the car and sat down. Brooklyn and Drew lowered themselves on either side of me.

  “What point?” he asked.

  “People are forced to change when they’re in a relationship. I, for one, like talking about bloody vaginas. I refuse to change my ways just for a man who doesn’t.”

  Brooklyn laughed. “Only you would have on your list of positive character traits: ‘must enjoy talking about bloody lady bits’.”

  “The bloody vagina is just part of the bigger picture. I’m not willing to change who I am for anyone, regardless of the size of his one-eyed willy. The right man will want to listen to me talk about my vagina in all its states — bloody, wet, dry, hairy, shaved.”

  “I can’t believe I’m listening to this,” Drew muttered, nodding across the aisle to an older couple who were giving him that look he was all too accustomed to, like they recognized him, but weren’t sure if he was someone they should know or just a random doppelgänger.

  “Well, the right man for me will have no problem listening to this.”

  “I’m pretty sure the only man who won’t have any problem discussing your intimate lady bits will be a gynecologist,” Brooklyn commented, then her expression brightened. “Hey! Maybe you’ll meet a doctor tonight!”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I’M A DOCTOR,” A moderately attractive man said after I asked what he did for a living.

  I glanced at the table to my right, giving Brooklyn an annoyed look. The function room at a popular seafood restaurant in Boston’s Back Bay had been rearranged for tonight’s dating extravaganza. Small two-by-two tables were assembled into approximately four rows of five tables each, the lighting dimmed. A lone candle sat in the center of each table, offering a romantic ambiance for every three-minute session. And that was exactly what it felt like. Some of these men had serious issues. If I were a therapist, I would go to speed dating just to increase my client list. The thought of drawing up some business cards had crossed my mind more than once in the past ten minutes.

  “And what is it you do?”

  I turned my attention back to the light brown-haired man sitting across from me. The flickering of the candle on his skin made it appear as if he had been badly burned as a child and the flesh had never grown back. Whoever organized this event was clearly trying too hard.

  “Nothing as exciting as being a doctor,” I said in a sweet voice, batting my lashes. Maybe I wasn’t taking this seriously, but how could I when the M.C. wore an oversized gaudy heart pinned to the lapel of his jacket? It was all so over the top. Drew was right, though. I had gotten some great material for a column. “Tell me more about that.” I leaned my head on my folded hands.

  One thing I had learned over the years of being a serial dater was how easy it was to get the focus off myself by asking whomever I was with a question about their lives. Human beings were naturally egotistical and loved talking about themselves. For most people, their favorite topic of conversation was me, me, and more me. But there was nothing interesting about Molly Brinks. Having a famous brother helped. Once people figured out I was the little sister of the Drew Brinks, all they’d want to talk about was him.

  “Oh, it’s not that exciting,” Mr. Doctor replied casually, brushing it off. I think he said his name was Curt. I glanced at the tag he wore over the breast of his shirt, noticing a mustard stain on the collar. I tried to ignore it, unsuccessfully. It glared against the light blue color. Did he not look in the mirror before he left the house?

  “Oh, come on,” I coaxed. “Stop being modest. Tell me something out of the ordinary that happened today.” I raised my wine glass to my mouth, licking my lips seductively. I knew how to get what I wanted.

  A nervous smile tugged at his mouth as he took a breath. “Okay. Well… This guy came in today. It was an emergency appointment. He had been trying to reattach a garage door spring. Those things are pretty heavy duty. Anyway, it backfired and smacked him right in the mouth. His six front teeth were shattered so I had to extract them, then fit him for some implants.”

  I straightened my spine, then furrowed my brow. “Isn’t that something a dentist would do?”

  He nodded. “Of course. That’s why he came to me.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re a dentist? I thought you said you were a doctor.”

  “Technically, dentists are doctors, too. It’s an incredibly specialized field.”

  “I’m not discounting the fact you had to study and work just as hard as a regular physician, but what would possess you to go into a profession where you’d be despised and feared? No one likes going to the dentist.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” he argued. “There are plenty of people who don’t mind it.”

  “I’ll concede there’s nothing like that fresh feeling in your mouth after having your teeth cleaned, but there’s nothing fun about sitting in that chair and going through all the scraping, grinding, drilling.” I shivered. “I’d rather go to my gynecologist and get a metal instrument shoved up my vagina than go to the dentist, if we’re being completely honest with each other. At least that’s over in about a second. Not the dentist. Oh no. That shit goes on for at least an hour.”

  I supposed the doctor line worked on most women. Let’s face it. If you met a complete stranger at a bar or on the street and heard he was a doctor, it upped his appeal a few points. If I hadn’t become such a cynic when it came to the whole dating charade, it may have worked on me, too. That ship had sailed long ago.

  A bell dinged, signaling the “date” was over. Mr. Dentist-not-Doctor slowly got up from the chair.

  “Hope you meet someone tonight,” I said in a chipper voice.

  He stared at me blankly, probably still in shock at my candor. Truth be told, for a dentist, his teeth could have used a little work. “You, too, Avery.”

  “Avery?” Brooklyn hissed as the men shuffled down the row of tables and we remained seated. It was a bit old-fashioned, thinking women shouldn’t be asked to get up. I would have given anything to stretch my legs and give my ass a break from sitting on this hard chair.

  I turned so she could see my name tag. “I’m doing this to find a muse for my book. Why not take on the persona of my leading lady?” I beamed a wide smile at her. />
  “I thought you were going to take this seriously,” she whispered.

  “I’m taking this seriously, but there’s absolutely no one here I can take seriously. It’s a giant waste of time.”

  I noticed someone lower himself into the chair across from me. Reluctantly, I turned my attention away from Brooklyn and toward the newest man of my dreams…at least for the next three minutes. It didn’t sound like a long time. In some company, feigning interest in their high-paced employment as a cold-call salesperson, three minutes was a goddamn eternity. I hated those bastards more than dentists.

  Over the next ninety minutes, I saw and heard it all. There was an older investment broker who, after some digging, I found was just an embellished way of saying he’d been laid off and was playing the stock market with his 401K. There were several overweight middle-aged men who still refused to come to terms with the fact their wife left them. Then there was my favorite faction of men…the hipsters. I’d never understood the necessity of wearing a winter hat indoors or sporting a pair of dark-framed glasses with fake lenses. They weren’t fooling anyone, except themselves.

  “This dating thing is too much work,” I said to Drew and Brooklyn after all the sessions had ended and the majority of the attendees were indulging in the open bar. It appeared as if a few connections had been made, so the night wasn’t a complete waste of time. But for my little circle, it was. I didn’t expect anything else and neither did Drew. Brooklyn, however, seemed a little frustrated.

  “No, it’s not,” she insisted, sipping on her gin and tonic.

  “My cheeks hurt from smiling and pretending I was interested in stamp collections and stories of college trips to Cancun.” I rolled my eyes, then turned to the bar, signaling the bartender to pour me another glass of wine.

  As my gaze shifted around the room to see men and women, who had been complete strangers earlier in the evening, laughing between sly glances and coy smiles, I considered perhaps Drew and Brooklyn were right, although I’d never admit it. Maybe I should keep my heart open to the possibility there was a guy out there who would be content with all my idiosyncrasies, who wouldn’t be offended by my sometimes vulgar language, who would love me for me.

  I just didn’t see how I would meet him at speed dating or online. The man of my dreams was too good to be true, a fantasy, a work of fiction. Still, I couldn’t get the image of my father all alone in the nursing home out of my mind. He probably had more visitors than most residents, but a few hours a week was nothing in comparison to the long stretches of time he was forced to keep himself and his mind busy with little outside stimuli. I couldn’t help but wonder who would visit me when I was old and senile. If I continued down this path, I knew the answer. No one.

  “There you two are!” a voice exclaimed, breaking me out of my thoughts.

  I turned around to see the flamboyant M.C., whom I had renamed Cupid’s Antichrist, running directly toward us. I flashed the bartender a smile, then raised my red wine to my lips, suppressing the urge to scribble my number on a napkin and slide it to him, along with the tip, in case I ever needed a brooding bartender as a muse.

  “This is the first time this has happened,” Cupid’s Antichrist continued.

  “What’s that?” Drew asked.

  With a grin, he grabbed Drew’s and my hand, linking them together. “I just went through all the questionnaires you filled out at the beginning of tonight and it’s too good to be true!” He brimmed with enthusiasm, bouncing in his loafers. He truly was wearing loafers. With no socks. “You two are a perfect match!”

  My eyes widened in horror and disgust. Yes, I was writing a forbidden romance and the stepbrother thing seemed to be popular as of late, but there was no step between Drew and me. With haste, we both withdrew our hands, our expressions nearly identical.

  “What?” he asked, looking at both Drew and me in confusion. “I thought this would be good news. See.” He held up the questionnaires we had filled out. “Avery Rollins and Jackson Price are compatible in every category.”

  I almost spit out my wine, praying this was a good omen for my book.

  “Maybe on paper,” Drew responded, saving me from having to answer. “But I don’t feel anything for her. In fact…” He faced me, smiling brightly. “She reminds me of my sister.”

  “I’m not going to force you two to do anything,” the M.C. sighed. “But you should at least exchange numbers. You never know.”

  “We’ll be sure to do that.” Laughing at the ridiculousness of the entire evening, I practically downed my glass of wine. Only alcohol could help me forget my perfect match was my brother.

  “Oh, and one more thing.” Cupid’s Antichrist spun around, studying Drew. “I’m sure you get this a lot, but has anyone ever mentioned you look like that hockey player? What was his name?” He bit his lips. “He played for the Bruins a few years back.”

  “Andrew Brinks,” the bartender muttered, drying a few rocks glasses.

  “Yes! That’s it!” he exclaimed. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like him?”

  A trite smile crossed Drew’s mouth. “I’ve gotten that a few times.”

  “I figured. The resemblance is uncanny.” He grinned at Drew, then nodded at Brooklyn and me. “Have a good evening.”

  After he walked away, Brooklyn turned to us, crossing her arms in front of her chest, her lips pinched. “Why didn’t you include me in your little plan?” she huffed.

  “What plan?” I asked innocently.

  “All of this.” She gestured between us, lowering her voice. “Am I the only one who used her real name?”

  Drew and I shared a mischievous look. It was true we were compatible. We grew up together. We’d been each other’s rock through all of life’s ups and downs. We knew what the other was thinking without either of us having to voice it.

  “Honestly, Brook,” I began. “We didn’t plan this.”

  “I don’t buy it. What are the chances of both of you using fake names? Then both being characters from the book you’re currently working on?”

  Drew nudged me. “Well, after all, we are a perfect match.”

  “Sick,” I groaned.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THAT DAMN BLINKING CURSOR had been mocking me all Saturday morning as I stared at it with pure hatred. I was convinced the geniuses who developed word processing software didn’t include the blinking cursor as a way to signal the user as to his or her place in the document. Oh no. Those bastards had a much more sadistic purpose…to remind those of us on a deadline of the impossibility of our task. I’d bypassed the time for fucking off on my procrastination continuum. Now was the time to do all the work while crying. Although I was pretty sure the sound escaping my mouth would be more appropriately categorized as a call of distress.

  I had forty hours until I needed to hand in a rough draft of the first 20,000 words. If I didn’t sleep between now and Monday morning, I would have to write 500 words an hour. It wasn’t an impossible task, apart from one rather minor detail. I was still sans muse. The words that once flowed so freely and easily were hard to find. I was more than aware of the fact that it was probably all in my head, but that still didn’t help me find the words. I’d lost count of the number of times I’d written several paragraphs, only to go back and delete them. It was the same crap I’d been writing for years now. I was tired of it.

  In a moment of desperation, I’d broken down and signed up for several online dating sites. I’d even reached out to one of my sorority sisters, Debra. She had a marketing degree and now worked as a “dating consultant” at a high-profile dating service. Apparently, extremely wealthy men paid the equivalent of most people’s yearly salary to have someone else find them potential dates. Since I had been a bridesmaid at her wedding, she owed me one and was more than happy to see if she had any clients in the area who were interested in meeting me. I was writing a billionaire businessman romance. What better source of inspiration than going on a date with a ridiculously wea
lthy businessman?

  After too many hours of staring at my laptop in frustration, my projected target in the corner of the screen mocking me with a total word count of one hundred, I shoved away from my computer. In the past, some of my best story ideas came to me when I stepped back from my laptop. I needed to do that again.

  The sun shining, warming the city, I decided it was the perfect weather to go roam around town and people-watch. My impetuous plan to try online dating to find a muse wasn’t going to help me deliver 20,000 words by Monday morning. At this point, I needed to consider the option of just writing 20,000 words of complete crap, then rewrite it once I had a muse.

  Pulling on a light jacket, I found my hobo sack of a bag and threw a notebook and pen into it. I gave Pee Wee a few kisses, trying to ignore the utter despair on his face at the thought of me abandoning him, even for a minute, then left my apartment, making sure to stop by the café to grab a coffee for the road.

  “You meet someone last night?” Aunt Gigi asked before I even had a chance to say hello.

  “No,” I answered, heading behind the counter to pour a coffee. “But I did end up being a perfect match with someone based on the compatibility questionnaire we all did when we signed in.” I turned to my aunt, whose expression lit up.

  “Really? Who?”

  “Drew.” I grabbed a cover and sleeve for my coffee, then headed back around the counter.

  Her face fell. “How about online dating? Did you put up your profile yet?”

  Taking a sip of my coffee, I tried to hide my scowl. “I’m working on it, Aunt Gigi.”

  “Did you make sure to include a photo?”

  I scrunched my eyebrows, wondering how my sixty-five-year-old, gray-haired, bingo-playing aunt could possibly know anything about online dating…or dating in general, for that matter. She had been married to my uncle Leo for forty-five years.

  “I did some research for you, Molly Mae.”