Crabbypants

by Colleen Charles

  I laugh, but it falls flat. That’s not the life I want. “You’ve got it all figured out. I know it’s gonna take me awhile–”

  “Brooke, that’s by design. You never give any guy a chance. You let Chad go for no apparent reason.”

  She’s wrong about that. “He didn’t make time for our relationship.”

  She rolls her eyes. “He’s a busy man. It’s not like he’s sitting at home twiddling his thumbs. He’s an equity partner at a top law firm. You have to be more patient.”

  I don’t give a flying fuck about his career status. He screwed up. End of story. “He forgot my birthday.”

  “Chad was a real douche for that one, but you could’ve worked through that. He never cheated on you or disrespected you. And he was smoking hot. Do you know how many women would’ve purified themselves in Lake Minnetonka for a guy like that?”

  I chuckle, but my mind drifts to the musical genius of the dearly departed. “Here we go with the ‘Purple Rain’ references.”

  “The point is that you need to be more understanding, Brooke.” She leans in and takes one of my hands. “Come on. I know you’d like to walk down that aisle someday soon too.”

  I shake my head in defiance. “Only if it’s right.”

  “There’s a difference between right and perfect.”

  “I’m not a perfectionist. I just have high standards. Is that such a crime?”

  “Of course not.” She blinks at me and drops my hand. It thumps down to the marble countertop between us.

  “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?” she asks.

  “It’s not that I can’t overlook a few flaws, it’s just that–”

  She holds up her hand. “Poor Chad, he’s probably missing you like crazy.”

  “I doubt that.” A shiver of annoyance runs through me. I’m about to admit I cyber-stalked my ex. The one I don’t want back. “I saw a picture on his Facebook page of him out on a date with Doreen Hansen.”

  “As in captain of the cheerleading squad Doreen?” She waves her hand in the air, emulating a cheer. “Give me an S! Give me an L! Give me a U! Give me a T! What’s that spell!?”

  I laugh straight through my lungs at Pam’s antics. “You know how I feel about slut shaming. Men sleep around all the time, and they never get a bad rap, but God forbid a woman–”

  “Come on, Brooke.” She pulls her new hairdo into fake pigtails. “That girl’s got more miles on her than a Mack Truck. Wait a minute, you were randomly looking at Chad’s Facebook page. Why?”

  I hesitate because I’ve been busted. “I…”

  “You wanna get back with him!”

  That couldn’t be further from the truth. Some perverse curiosity got ahold of me during a week moment. “No!”

  “Yeah, you do, why else would you be checking out his Facebook page?”

  “That’s not what I want. Not by a long shot. And if I ever did go out with him again, he would have to be tested for every disease known to man and have his dick doused in Lysol before I’d take that shit inside me again.”

  She laughs and executes a perfect twirl. “Exactly. And you tried to put a guilt trip on me for slut shaming?”

  I slumped and dropped my face in my hands. “You’re right, Doreen has been around. I can’t believe that Chad went from me to her. Kind of think that says it all, doesn’t it? Cheap and easy is what he’s looking for.”

  “You didn’t give him a choice. He had to find someone. It’s hard for men to be alone. They don’t know how to function. In solitude, they go nutsy-cuckoo.”

  “Yeah.” I think about Landon and his weird behavior. Maybe his wife is out of town or something? That would make sense. Pam’s hit the nail on the head, and Landon provides proof to the truth of her words.

  The door chimes and the delivery man walks in holding a brown paper bag. “I have an order for Brooke.”

  I smile and grab my wallet. “That smells delicious.”

  “It sure does. I wish I would’ve known that you were ordering from one of my favorite restaurants,” Pam adds, both eyebrows raised to her hairline.

  I turn to her. “There’s enough for us to share, if you want?”

  “Knock yourself out.” She grins but shakes her head. “I’m saving my appetite for the steakhouse with Quinn tonight.”

  I pay the delivery man and give him a tip. “Thanks,” he says and walks out.

  I open the bag and grab my chicken burrito. Ripping off the top of the aluminum foil, I inhale the spicy scent as my stomach gives another loud protest at the late lunch. I open my mouth wide to take a bite but the phone rings. It’s a few inches away from me, but I’m way too hungry to answer the call.

  “Can you please get that.” I beseech Pam with my eyes.

  “No problem.” She walks over and grabs the receiver. “Bark Buddies Training, Pam speaking, how may I help you?” She pauses. “Hold on just a second please.” She presses the mute button on the receiver.

  I bite into the scrumptious burrito, an explosion of flavor coating my mouth. I close my eyes and savor it.

  “Brooke?”

  I open my eyes. “Huh?” I say around the huge bite of food.

  “There’s a guy on the phone who wants to talk to you.”

  I swallow my food before answering. “Tell him I’ll call him back.”

  “Well, he sounds kinda…” She pauses, scrunching up her face in search of the right word.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know how to describe it. He seems very impatient. Kinda pissy. I don’t know what his deal is.”

  Dread straightens my spine. “Who is it?” I ask, setting down my fork.

  “I’m not sure. He didn’t say his name, but he insisted on talking to you.”

  I sigh as I wipe my messy fingers with the napkin. “Lemme talk to him.”

  “I can force him to give me a message instead?”

  “No, that’s okay,” I say, sliding from the stool. “This’ll only take a minute.” I pick up the phone. “Brooke speaking. How–”

  “You need to get back over here and deal with these destructive little shits!” a man’s voice shouts.

  “What?” The tone of my voice sounds pissed even to my own ears. Pam rears back and frowns at me. “Excuse me? First of all, I don’t allow customers to call here and be disrespectful. I can help you, but not until you calm down.” Then to rub it in, I ask, “Who is this?”

  “It’s Landon.”

  “Oh, don’t you mean Mr. Crabby Pants,” I quip, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. Hanging up…rather, slamming the phone down multiple times until it explodes into shards of plastic seems more appropriate than talking to this fuck. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Now is not the time for sarcasm. This fucking dog just chewed up my signed copy of Great Expectations!”

  I cluck my tongue, but frankly, my heart pumps piss for him. “I’m sorry to hear that, but that’s no reason for you to–”

  “Did you not hear a word I said? This book is irreplaceable!”

  “I said I was sorry. What else do you want from me, Landon?”

  “For you to do your fucking job!”

  “Watch your fucking language!” Pam’s eyes widen into saucers as she looks over at me. “If you want me to help you, you have to listen to me and follow my rules. That means no yelling and screaming. Especially at me.”

  “But–”

  “Those are my ground rules. Follow them, or else you can find someone else.”

  He takes a deep breath, and I can imagine him mentally counting to ten before he begrudgingly acquiesces. “Okay.”

  “I’m going to give you a set of rules to follow to train your dogs. If you deviate from that, then I can’t help you anymore, and you can kiss all of your precious things goodbye. Is that understood?”

  “Yeah.” He pauses and a slice of fear bolts through me. With this guy, I have no idea what might be coming next, but I sure as hell don’t expect to like
it. “I didn’t mean to blow up on you like that. I just...it’s a long story. That book means so much to me, and I almost lost it.”

  “I get it. It happens sometimes since dogs don’t utilize logical thinking when they select things to chew. But it doesn’t have to happen again.”

  For the first time in this conversation, he sounds almost human. “I hope not. I don’t know what I would do if–”

  “Landon, you have to trust the process. Okay?”

  The line falls quiet. After a few long seconds, I realize he’s probably considering how to eat a healthy serving of roasted crow. “Okay. So, when can you come back?”

  “Next Thursday is my first opening,” I offer, not looking forward to it but putting the dog’s best interests ahead of my own. I like to think I’m a better person than he’s reduced me to.

  “That sounds good. Thank you, Brooke.”

  “And when I come back…”

  “Yes?”

  I want to say, “Don’t be a douche,” but instead, I say, “We’ll figure this out. Take care.”

  “You too.”

  I hang up the phone, fanning my flushed cheeks. Pam smiles and mimics me, saying, “Watch your fucking language! What was that all about?”

  “Remember the guy with all of the Chihuahuas?” My mind goes through the photo album of Landon’s toy dogs.

  “Yeah, the asshole who’s living in Mrs. Barrett’s house who spazzed out at the grocery store over Thin Mints? The famous author who turned out to be a total douchebag when you met him in person?”

  “Bingo.” The arrogance he carries turns me on, despite my better judgment. Just talking to him floods my panties. He’s delicious. Talented. Surly. Rich. Well, screw him and his list of desirable qualities. He’s not for me.

  He’s not.

  “What about him?” Pam asks, her eyes searching mine.

  “Well, he wants me to come back and try to train his dogs again,” I breathe, tamping down the telltale squeak in my voice.

  “You’re gonna actually go through with it?” She sounds like I just told her I’m going to traverse Mount Everest when I can’t even climb Buck Hill.

  “It’s not about him,” I argue, knowing in my heart it’s partly about him. And the way his jeans hugged his ripped thighs. I wonder what he’s packing down south. “It’s really about helping the dogs.”

  “True.” Pam smirks after she says it. She’s on to me and she and I both know it.

  “I will give this one more try.”

  “Good for you, Brooke.”

  Chapter 10

  Landon

  When the alarm buzzes on my iPhone, I jolt out of bed. Not that I really needed an alarm anymore since I always set my own hours. But I still turn it on every night, a habit from my days punching a clock. Nothing like an annoying buzzing noise to start the morning.

  I stand up and stretch, not feeling the least bit tired. I got a good night’s sleep, despite dreams of tiny dogs licking me everywhere. A sudden thought sets my heart to thumping and my groin to tightening. Brooke. She will be here in a few hours.

  It’s your second chance, Landon. Your do-over. Don’t fuck it up this time.

  For me, that’s often easier said than done. Somehow, I’ve got to make a better impression. I still like Brooke and most of all, I’m desperate for her help.

  I still get a gut-wrenching feeling in the pit of my stomach when I think about how Chili destroyed my signed copy of Great Expectations. It’s barely recognizable, but I just couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. Searching Google for hours, I finally found the name of a guy that repairs antique books. If anything can be done to repair it, he can try. I can’t let go of that piece of Carla, even if it looks like it belongs in the recycle bin.

  Outside the bedroom door, angry yelps fill the air. Why in God’s name are they so damn loud in the morning? The worst culprit is Fajita. I open the door and say, “Quiet down already! Geez!”

  They run toward me, jumping up and down and wagging their feathery tails. I can tell they want me to pet them, but I’m not up for that right now. “I said quiet down! I’m about to take a shower? Is that alright?”

  They continue their shrill chorus of barks until I give up and take them outside to do their business. Do they make litter boxes for dogs?

  Fifteen minutes later, I make my way to the bathroom and step into the hot shower. I lather up and let the water wash over my skin. I close my eyes and take a deep breath as I shampoo my hair. When the tension in my back lets up, I’m relaxed and ready to start the day.

  I step out of the shower and wipe off the steamy mirror with the palm of my hand. Carla hated when I did that. I smile a little at my reflection. “Not bad for a dude your age,” I say as I rub some gel into my hands and spike up my hair.

  Today is supposed to be a fresh start with Brooke, so I figure why not change up my look a little. Women do it all the time. Guys have very limited options. We can shave or not. We can grow out our hair or not. I’ve heard of men who get their eyebrows waxed, but I could never dream of doing that.

  The metrosexual thing just isn’t my style. Too much manscaping turns a man into…not a man. I’m sure that it’s normal in Hollywood, but straight guys in my neck of the woods don’t make a fuss over eyebrows. Besides, the thought of it sends a shudder through me.

  Carla used to get her eyebrows waxed. Sometimes the skin would be pink and raw afterward. I never understood why she bothered with it all. Her natural beauty shone through no matter what she did or didn’t do. But one day, she explained that women don’t only keep up their appearances for men...they also do it for other women. If a dude told me to wax my eyebrows, I’d tell him exactly where he could go.

  It’s hard for me to relate. Men don’t judge each other’s looks unless the situation is extreme...as in some dude has food caked up in his beard. Or his ass crack is hanging out. For god sake, buy a belt and actually use it. But for the most part, guys don’t even notice what other men look like. We’re way too busy checking out women to worry about our personal style.

  I need to find something to wear. I’ve been procrastinating on laundry, so the pickings are slim. I grab a pair of khakis and a pink button-down shirt. I’m confident enough to wear pink, but I would never buy it for myself. Grandma Nancy gave it to me for Christmas one year, saying it would bring out the brown in my eyes. It seems fitting that I wear it today because maybe it will bring me luck with taming the little terrors.

  I get dressed and make my way to the kitchen. For breakfast, I have a choice between cereal and leftover Chinese food. I decide to heat up the lo mein. Instead of my usual pot of coffee, I pour a glass of orange juice. I’m surprisingly energized, for once, I can do without the caffeine.

  As I eat the noodles and guzzle down my juice, my gaze falls to the picture window overlooking Prior Lake. It’s cold outside, but at least the sun has made an appearance today. Low temperatures I can live with, but days and even weeks with barely any sunlight can be downright depressing. I love living in the Midwest, but sometimes, usually around January or February when I’m up to my knees in snow and ice, I think about moving someplace warm. Maybe Arizona or New Mexico. Dry heat would be fine by me, even with desert temperatures.

  After breakfast, if you want to call it that, I pop open my laptop and check my emails. My picky editor compliments me on my rewrites. I flash a big smile. So far, the day is off to a great start.

  The dogs run up to me, barking. Maybe I spoke too soon, I think as they try to jump up on my lap. “No! No!” I shake my head. It’s useless. They keep on jumping and wagging their tails. I take a deep breath. At least I got to eat breakfast in peace. I have to celebrate the small victories.

  I get up off my ass and get the dog food out of the cabinet. Grandma Nancy neatly painted each of their names on the bowls. Without a doubt, she treated them better than some people treat their own kids. The dogs gobble up the food. It’s the expensive stuff with the all-natural ingredients. I never drea
med of shelling out that kind of cash for some dog food. Christ, it costs more than hamburger, but that’s what they’re used to eating. I tried to get them a generic brand once, and the spoiled little brats refused to even take a bite.

  While they’re eating, I take a moment to blast off a few more work emails. Then, I get started on an outline for the second book in my new trilogy. Things are off to a slow start. I’m not sure where to go with the story. I stand up and walk around the room to get the creative juices flowing.

  When I come back to the computer, instead of writing, I log onto Facebook, typing in “Brooke Kirkland.” Not surprisingly, a few women with that name pop up on the screen. But there’s only one in Prior Lake. Besides, I can spot those azure eyes anywhere. I’m amazed that she’s kept her profile public. I’m even more amazed that her status is “Single.” Something about reading that single word causes my balls to tighten.

  I adjust my pants as I log out of Facebook. Hopefully, she doesn’t have one of those apps that tells her who looks at her profile. I don’t want her to think I’m a stalker.

  After a few minutes of browsing stupid articles on Yahoo!, I finally get back to work. Time zips by, and it’s almost two o’clock. When the doorbell rings, I feel as nervous as a kid on prom night. Why does this woman have such an effect on me? As I walk to the door, I demand that my stomach stop flipping over.

  The little terrors follow behind me, barking up a storm. I open the door, and Brooke stands there, looking just as beautiful as she did the last time I saw her. My stomach rebels.

  I smile. “Hey, come on in.”

  She walks inside. Immediately, she bends to pet the dogs. “I missed you guys!”

  I guess I’m chopped liver. But I deserve the snub. I know I should be grateful that she even came back. Not only did I act like a total prick during the first training session, I called her at her place of business, cursing and ranting like a lunatic. But I am worthy of forgiveness. It’s not every day that you witness the destruction of something so irreplaceable as a signed copy of Great Expectations given to you by your dead wife.