by M. Mabie
“I don't know why you think this is so funny. I suck at this.” Aly admonished when she climbed into the seat next to me in the taxi. She thought I was laughing at her. I wasn’t.
I was smiling because the girl who I wanted was showing signs of wanting me back. And it had nothing to do with our physical chemistry, which we had in spades.
I thought about texting her and letting her off the hook, but I sort of wanted her to dangle there a little longer. On my hook. Waiting for me.
It felt amazing.
“I'm not making fun of you. I got a funny text. That’s all,” I finally admitted to Aly on the ride to the hotel. She only rolled her eyes not believing me.
The next day we were meeting with the owner of a string of restaurants in the Metro-Chicago area. It was a pretty big deal. We were going to need our A-game. And by A-game, I meant Aly should probably sit this one out.
“Hey, you don't have to go tomorrow if you don't want to. I can go. Then tomorrow night you can meet up with us for dinner,” I said after we were checked into the hotel and walking toward the elevators. “You'll get the hang of it.”
“Okay, you do the meeting part and then I'll catch up with you, but I need to learn how you do this. You need to tell me what I'm doing wrong.” She huffed as she wielded her luggage into the elevator car. “Let me have it.”
I looked at her and thought that if it were Blake telling me to let her have it, I'd give it to her right here in the elevator. Instead, I just looked at Aly like...like a friend. Or a cousin, although that was gross considering I'd already slept with her. The feeling of attraction, that I sort of got when she first started coming around, wasn't there.
She was still pretty, with her long, blonde, wavy hair and green eyes, and she was fun to be around. She had an amazing body and took very good care of herself, but I didn't crave her.
I craved Blake. I snapped myself out of my thoughts and bucked up. If she wanted the truth—no bullshit—then I was going to let her have it.
“You're stiff in front of people you don't know. You need to act like you've been friends with them for years. You know, like you relate to your friends or me. Just be yourself. I can see you're only trying to be professional and that's great. But, Aly, no one is going to listen to you rattle on about numbers and spreadsheets if they don't already like you. That's sales.”
I watched her take it all in. A crinkle across her brow told me that she was deciding whether or not I'd insulted her.
So I added, “You just have to sell yourself first and then sell the beer second. I swear. That's it.”
The door dinged as we arrived on our floor. Our rooms were next to each other. She wanted to share last week when we were making arrangements, but I shut that down quickly. I wasn't about to toy with her, even if it would have been as easy as shooting fish in a barrel.
We stopped at 811 and 813, and she held both of the cards. Handing me one, she asked, “Do you want to get dinner in a little bit? I'm hungry, but I think I'm going to take a nap first.”
“Sure. Knock when you're ready.”
“Okay,” she said as she lugged her bags inside her room.
The room was nice. The customary king-sized bed, a nice wet bar, and a sitting area. That was more than what I needed, but I was happy to have a little space. Staying in hotels night after night was great, but sometimes they felt a little tight.
The beds were sometimes too close to the walls. The showers were often too short for my body. I’m not a giant, but six-foot-two guy like me should be able to fit under the showerhead. I’ve got a lot of hair. It’s a pain in the ass to get the soap out.
I don't mind living out of a suitcase, but I liked my space, too.
After I took out my clothes for the next day and hung them in the closet, and made the hotel room my home for the next forty-eight hours, I found myself on the couch looking at my phone. Reading and rereading the messages Blake sent. I wondered what she was doing. I did the math. What time zone was she in? What time zone was I in? This was becoming commonplace. This new me versus Blake time equation. Should I make her wait? Should I see if she'd give up or if she'd keep messaging me?
Then my mind would go somewhere else. It would wander to a place where she was with her boyfriend and they were happy. My conscience would tell me, “Drop it. She’s already taken.” But the biggest part of me said, “You want her. Make her yours.”
Was that an alpha male thing to think? I didn't think of myself like an alpha male. Pissing on everything I liked. Claiming everything that I conquered as my own. But when it came to her, my instincts told me to act. To claim. To take.
That part of me said, get her.
Then, like I did almost every day, I sent her a message because I couldn't wait to see what she'd say back.
Me: I just got off a plane and into a hotel. What are you doing?
Was she with him? What did she tell him when she got messages from me when he was around? Maybe she hid it. Maybe she just didn't answer her phone. There were so many things that I didn't know.
Sure. We'd had a one-night stand, but we didn't really mention it. For the most part our messages were strictly on the friendly side. Not that there wasn't flirting. There was and it was quickly becoming not enough for me.
Still, I'd played it cool. I sent her the reply and then decided to flick through the channels and find something on TV. I turned up the volume and drowned out my crazy mind with the Food Network.
That was also becoming a habit.
I watched mindlessly as the chefs battled it out for some top prize if they could make whatever the hell food out of these random ingredients. I both hated it and was hooked at the same time.
Honeybee: Just got back home.
When she would finally answer I always thought I should try to ignore her, but I never could.
Me: I thought you were ignoring me. LOL
Honeybee: You're not funny.
Me: How was your day? So you like Mayday Maggie?
Honeybee: My mother is driving me nuts, but other than that it was good. Yeah. That band is really good.
Me: We should go see them sometime.
Delete.
Me: I think I'm going to go see them. Cory and our friend Troy know their bassist.
Honeybee: Small world. How was your day?
It was six in Chicago, so it was four in Seattle. This time of the night was usually radio silent from her end. It made me curious.
Me: Good. Traveled most the day. Lost a few hours in the process. I've got a meeting in the morning. I'll probably call it a night early. You know. Beauty sleep. LOL.
Honeybee: You need it. From what little I remember of you, you look pretty haggard in general.
That was how she flirted. She insulted me. It was her way. She was becoming easy to read. If she thought things one way, then she'd admit to the complete opposite. It was her tell. At least via text. The other night when I told her I was going to brush my teeth and go to bed she told me she could still smell my dragon breath and that I better floss and rinse while I was at it. Since I'd already caught on to her exaggerations, I interpreted this as she thought about my mouth and liked it.
Me: Haggard by way of ruggedly handsome? I agree.
Honeybee: Something like that.
We bantered back and forth for over an hour. We covered random topics, it was becoming a ritual for me.
Eating. Drinking. Breathing. Blake.
I acquired the ability to time how long it would take her to be my Blake—well the Blake I knew anyway—through our messages. They would typically start in a very platonic tone, but before the end of the night, I'd get her flirting back with me and it was like I was chatting with the fun girl in the coffee shop, the girl she called Betty. I could almost hear her reading her text messages to me with that ridiculous pretend Southern accent.
She was my Blake a little quicker than normal that night. I regretted having to go to dinner with Aly, but I also knew I should. The better she got a
t this travel thing, the better for the brewery. The better the brewery did, the more money I'd make.
The more money I made, the better chances I had at showing up this guy who was fast becoming my arch nemesis. I really had nothing too negative to dwell on about him though. We didn't talk about him. Ever. Sometimes because I didn't want to bring him up and turn her back into his Blake and in part because for some reason, she didn't seem keen on bringing him up either.
But in my mind, I was the good guy and he was the bad guy. However, my mind wasn't really the picture of reality. He was her boyfriend and I was a guy trying to steal her attention and…and what? Make her my girlfriend? Did I want a girlfriend? I might have if it were her.
But hell, what did I really have to offer her? I was working damn hard to get ahead in my career. Would I even have time to be the kind of boyfriend she deserved? Not that anything in my made-up scenario was close to likely.
What if? What if? What the fuck if?
For now, it was flirty text messages and hopefully crossing paths in a hotel again sometime.
Oh, we were going to cross paths. I'd make sure of it.
But that night, I just wanted to come while I listened to her voice, or at least while I was imagining her voice while she sent me dirty pictures.
I had a big to-do list for my plans later on.
Keep my Blake chatting.
Get some much-needed visuals in the form of another picture. The ball game one was great, but I wanted to see more of her.
Possibly call her on the phone.
Then have phone sex.
It was a tall order, but I aimed high.
So while she was still being playful and sweet, I needed to solidify my pseudo-date for later.
Me: You're fun.
Honeybee: I know.
Me: You're pretty.
Honeybee: You are, too.
I wasn't expecting that. She was really sweet that afternoon.
Me: I'm going to get a shower and go get something to eat. Will you be up later?
I'm going to take a shower and cum all over the wall like it's your mouth and then go to dinner with a woman who isn't fun like you.
Honeybee: What time?
Me: I don't know 10 here, 8 there?
Honeybee: Okay. Let me text you first.
Let me text you first, I learned, was code for I'm going to be with him. I hated let me text you first. It hated every second of waiting for her, as minutes ballooned into twice their actual span of time waiting for Blake to text me first.
Me: I'll wait. You could call.
Honeybee: I might.
Me: All right. Later, then.
I thought about turning my phone off, but I couldn't. I threw it on the bed, stripped down to my boxers, and walked into the bathroom for a shower.
The water was hot. My hand was slow. My eyes were screwed shut. My mind was with her.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
MY MIND WAS WITH him. He was taking a shower.
I needed a shower. In some small way, I wanted to get into the shower because it made me feel like I was closer to him. We'd just finished sending messages back and forth like telephonic Ping-Pong. I could hear his chuckling at some of them. That was weird, right? That I could hear him laugh at my texts?
Well, I could.
Every time he replied with an LOL I let my mind hear it. The best part about my memory was it did this funny thing with his laugh. It wasn't the same laugh every time. My imagination would invent laughing sequences for a guy who I'd only met briefly. It was the strangest and most wonderful thing.
I stood there running the hot water about to get in, when I thought about Grant. Which I did a lot when I was thinking about Casey.
I'd become accustomed to comparing the two.
Casey was devilishly playful and crass. Grant was sweet and smart and thoughtful. But both were genuine.
Casey was low maintenance. We could text, stop for a while and then hours later pick up our conversation. Or we’d start a new one. It didn't matter. He was easy.
Grant was higher maintenance. He liked a schedule. He'd admitted that me taking the new job was awesome and that he was proud, but he was so minute-to-minute. He wanted to know where I was going, what I was doing, and did I like it so far? All things a boyfriend should. And even though I was excited about all the things he'd asked me about, everything always fell flat when he asked. It felt a little suffocating at times. It was probably just me, though, right?
Every girl wants the man with a steady job and a huge heart. Everyone wants the man who would spend time with your parents and—to the best of your knowledge—enjoy doing it. Grant wanted a family and home, a good life, which I was sure I'd have with him. The perfect, traditional life.
Casey lived out of a suitcase and hadn't slept in his own bed for days. He sold beer and needed a haircut. All right, I liked the hair. He was two years older than Grant and me, yet he acted like he was twenty-one, I thought, but I didn't know him that well.
I stepped up to the mirror and wiped away the steam from the water, which was hot enough to distract me and clear my head for an evening with Grant.
I noticed my bangs were growing out fast. They needed trimming already. I made a snap decision to get the kitchen scissors and trim them myself.
After rifling through drawer after drawer, I finally found them in the dishwasher. I shut the dishwasher door and I saw my phone light up and heard it vibrate. Maybe it was him, but I told him I'd text first and so far he'd always waited. I hadn't wanted to be rude to Grant and text Casey back right in front of him. Grant wouldn't think anything of it. I text my family and friends all the time. He'd never acted the slightest bit jealous or suspicious.
Why would he then? And I'd be guilty, because I'd answer him. I just knew I would. I couldn't help myself.
The screen said I'd got a text, but the number didn’t jive with my contacts.
Unknown Number: Why are you texting my boyfriend?
I read. Blinked. Read it again. My heart raced.
Casey told me he was going to get a shower and something to eat. Then he'd be around later. I couldn't understand. I didn't know what to say. I wanted to delete it and block the number. I didn't want to respond.
I needed to take a shower. I needed to get ready for Grant.
Casey was someone's boyfriend. What the fuck? I felt ill.
I'd known what we'd been doing was wrong on some level. All right. On every level. I'd been unfaithful to Grant, but I honestly hadn't thought about the girl Casey was with at Micah's since he’d said they'd broken up that night in my hotel room, when I was drunk.
I supposed things changed.
Maybe they'd gotten back together.
Maybe that was a different girl.
Maybe he lied about all of it. I felt a cold sweat break over my chest and back. I felt lightheaded. My clammy and nervous hands held the phone out in front of me and every time the light on the screen timed out, I'd press the button and swipe it open to re-read it over again. Minutes passed and I did it over and over.
It wasn't like I'd thought Casey and I would ever have a chance or that we'd even see each other again. Although, in the back of my mind, I thought it was possible if Micah and Cory ever got married. But that wouldn’t be for a while.
I hadn't spent a whole night with Grant since we started texting. Not that I was afraid of getting caught. Honestly, I wasn't. It was that I liked being alone and with Casey at the same time. I didn't want to be around anyone when he was giving me his warped brand of attention. It felt all my own. My crazy secret.
I loved talking, well texting him. Lately, it was the highlight of my day. Where I never wanted to talk to Grant when he asked me about anything and everything, Casey not asking made me want to tell him every minute detail. Having that small connection with him had been awesome. Every night I looked forward to hearing my phone buzz. I anticipated what he would text; he always told me the strangest things. Things I didn't even
know I cared to know.
Some of his weird messages ran through my head.
Casey: Did you know that you can use semen for invisible ink?
Casey: I read that the inside of a female's nose plumps up when she's aroused. Like a nose boner. LOL
Casey: Bees have five eyeballs. Gross.
Casey: Only one state has one syllable. Maine. Boom. Betcha didn't know that.
I went to sleep happy every night.
Now seeing this message, although I had absolutely no right to be angry, I felt like I was the one who'd been cheated on.
How fucked up was that?
A surge of some type of territorial feeling flooded me.
Me: I am texting your boyfriend because he sold me some line about Bait, and I think he's right.
Delete.
Me: Who is this? I think you have the wrong number.
Her: He calls you honeybee.
It wasn't a question. He called me honeybee in San Francisco and sometimes in our messages. She'd read our messages. She wasn't asking. Thank God for the most part they were harmless.
Thank God? What was I hoping? That he didn't get caught?
I don't know what I was thinking. I was so damn confused.
When I'd been typing the messages, I felt like I'd been good at staying in a friendly zone. But now thinking about them through this girlfriend person's eyes, they'd seemed anything but.
Unease moved straight into anger, then it turned around and headed to denial.
Me: We are only friends.
Her: Leave him alone.
Me: I told you we were just friends. I think he can decide on his own if I should leave him alone.
Girlfriend.
Yes, from that point forward that would be her official name. Not like his girlfriend. In my mind it sounded a lot more like bitch.
Her: He said you were nobody when I asked. That doesn't seem too friendly.
Bitch. Girlfriend. Girlfriend. His girlfriend. Who obviously cared about him enough to stand up for herself and their relationship.
Who does that make me?
Nobody? Casey's nobody? I'm nobody's nobody. I'm Grant's somebody.
