Man Candy

by Melanie Harlow

  Nothing. More choked sobs.

  “Margot, honey, talk to us.” Claire tried to lean down and make eye contact, but Margot’s puffy eyes were shut tight. We still didn’t know exactly what happened. After getting her text asking us to please come to her house as soon as we could, we’d rushed over and found her like this. She’d nodded yes when we asked if something had happened with Tripp, but we had no other details.

  Exchanging a worried glance with Claire, I stroked Margot’s hair. Usually blown out to smooth, shiny perfection, right now it looked and felt like it might contain a couple bird nests. Maybe a squirrel corpse or two.

  “OK then, cry it out,” I said, realizing that there was no stopping this train. “We’ll be right here when you’re ready to talk.” I lay down on the floor too, curling up on my side, hands tucked under my cheek.

  “Yep.” Claire lay down on the other side of her and patted her shoulder. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  A few minutes ticked by, and Margot’s sobs slowed, then quieted. Finally, she took a long, shaky breath. “OK.” She exhaled. “OK. I think I need some whiskey.”

  “You got it,” I said, hopping to my feet. I might not be good at soothing a broken heart, but shooting whiskey? That I could do.

  I hurried down the steps of Margot’s beautiful townhouse and pulled a bottle of Two James Grass Widow Bourbon from a kitchen cupboard. Tucking it under my arm, I grabbed three little glasses from another shelf and headed back up.

  When I reached her bedroom, Margot was sitting up against the bed, blowing her nose in a tissue. Claire sat next to her, holding the box.

  “Just what the doctor ordered,” I said, setting the glasses down and sitting cross-legged, facing them. I opened the bottle and poured about an inch into each glass, handing one to Margot and one to Claire. Setting the bottle aside, I picked up mine and we all took a sip.

  Margot sighed. “God, I need this.” She tipped her glass back again, finishing the contents.

  “Easy, hon,” Claire warned.

  I picked up the bottle and poured her some more. “So easy.”

  It almost made her smile. “Fuck, you guys. My head.”

  “I can imagine,” I said. Her eyes were so red and puffy, I didn’t know how she could see. “Want to tell us what happened?”

  She sipped again before talking. “Probably exactly what you think. I brought up getting engaged last night at dinner, and he changed the subject. I tried again when we got back here, and he went home with a headache. I tried a third time this morning after brunch, and he finally admitted he’d been putting off telling me something for a while because he didn’t want to hurt me.”

  “What did he say?” Claire asked.

  “That he changed his mind. He doesn’t want to get married.”

  “Doesn’t want to get married now? Or ever?” I wondered.

  Margot nodded. “That’s what I asked. And he said definitely not now, and maybe not ever.”

  “Well, what the fuck?” I frowned. “Why did he lead you to believe otherwise for the last three years?”

  “I asked him that too. He said people change.”

  “Within a few months?” Claire snapped. “He just asked you about a ring in December!”

  “I know,” Margot said before a big swallow of bourbon, “but now he says he’s perfectly happy with the way things are and he doesn’t want anything to change.”

  Happiness is always a for-now thing, I heard myself telling Quinn the night I laid out the rules for him.

  But don’t you think it’s possible to know that something or someone would always make you happy? he’d asked.

  Lately the question had begun to haunt me.

  “That’s bullshit.” Claire sat up taller. “So he just wants you to wait around until he decides he’s ready for things to change?”

  “Basically.” Margot shrugged, her eyes filling. “But there’s no guarantee he’ll ever want things to change. He refused to make any promises.”

  So what? I thought. Promises, like rules, could be broken. But I said nothing.

  “God, I want to punch his smug chin right now,” Claire said. “I’m sorry, but I hate his chin. The way he points it at people.”

  “It’s OK, I hate it right now too.” Margot drank a little more. “And the sex lately has been bad, you guys.”

  “Really?” I blinked at her.

  She nodded. “I don’t know why, exactly. It seemed perfectly fine for three years and then it just got—I don’t know. Routine. Too fast.”

  “But doesn’t that always happen over time?” I asked. “I mean, you can’t expect that initial spark to last for years, can you?” Although, to be honest, I couldn’t imagine the spark between Quinn and me dying out. What the hell?

  “Sure, you can,” Claire argued. “I’ve seen plenty of couples who have great sexual chemistry and have been together for years. Look at my parents! It’s embarrassing how much they touch each other all the time!”

  “And it’s not like I expect fireworks every time,” Margot said. “I’d settle for an orgasm once a month, even.”

  I gaped at her. “Once a month? Remind me why you want to marry this guy.”

  “Because we’re right for each other! And I don’t understand what went wrong,” she said, setting her glass down and dropping her head into her hands. “A few months ago everything was fine and we wanted the same things. Then suddenly he’s changed his mind and we’re going nowhere.”

  “Does he want to break up?” Claire asked.

  “No, but I do. I told him I’m not going to wait around in a relationship that’s a dead end, and he said I was being childish and unreasonable.” She wiped her nose on the back of her hand before reaching for another tissue.

  “Asshole,” I hissed. “What did you say to that?”

  “I said ‘Go fuck yourself.’”

  That made me grin a mile wide.

  “But am I making a mistake?” Margot asked desperately. “I mean, I don’t need a ring tomorrow, but I at least liked knowing we were building toward something. It made me feel happy and secure in the future. Now everything’s just fucked!” She started weeping again.

  I scooted closer and rubbed her back. “You did the right thing, Margot. A woman like you does not need to wait around for any man, least of all a dipshit like Tripp.”

  “I just kept thinking, if I don’t do it now, he’s just going to dump me later, once he’s tired of me,” she sobbed. “And I couldn’t bear the thought that he’d be the one to call it off, and I’d look like the biggest fool on the planet, waiting around all these years for a proposal that never came.”

  “No one would ever say that,” Claire said loyally.

  “Yes, they would,” Margot insisted. “You don’t know how people talk in those circles. They’re so nice to your face and so vicious behind your back. I bet they’re already talking about me.”

  “Listen, posh people don’t have a monopoly on shitty gossip,” I told her. “They just do it more quietly in more expensive rooms. And everything is not fucked! The way I see it, your future is wide open now.”

  “I agree,” said Claire. “And if love and marriage is what you want, you’ll find it. I know you will.”

  “Or fuck love and marriage!” I said. “Get out there and do things you’ve always wanted to do! Take a trip, get a new job, change things up! Maybe this is a wake-up call.”

  She sniffed, looking at me with puffy eyes. “Maybe. Fucking hurts, though.”

  My heart squeezed as she dissolved into tears again. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  I called Quinn on the way home, who said he’d waited for me, and dinner would be ready when I got there. I apologized for being late, but he said apologies weren’t necessary, a friend in need was more important than spaghetti, and besides, this gave him something to punish me for later.

  God, he was so fucking perfect.

  It was terrifying…what was I doing?

  Seeing Margot come apart
at the seams like that was making me wonder if I had any fucking clue. The last two weeks had been so intense—I hardly recognized myself. I wanted to be with Quinn almost all the time. I thought about him constantly. A few times, I even caught myself about to say I love you, before memory and common sense kicked in and reminded me what happened the last time I did that.

  This was fucked up.

  I didn’t believe in love like that, did I? But then what was that feeling that stopped my heart and stole my breath, made me break all my rules and drop my defenses? That made me want to share things with him I’d never even thought about sharing with anyone else? What was that longing for him when we were apart? What was that flutter in my stomach when I saw him again? What was that tingle in my skin, that rush to the head, that certainty in my bones that when I was with him, nothing else mattered?

  This couldn’t happen.

  It couldn’t be me.

  But when I walked into his flat and saw him in the kitchen putting together our dinner…when he looked over at me and his eyes lit up…when he stopped what he was doing and came over to kiss me…I knew I was drowning.

  A sweat broke out on my back, and the room spun. My stomach churned and my head throbbed, my mouth was dry and my legs were weak.

  This is why they call it lovesick.

  I couldn’t even breathe.

  After he kissed me hello, he started talking about something, and his voice seemed to come at me from the end of a long tunnel. I heard sounds but not words. My body felt heavy, as if the force of gravity had just increased exponentially, and I braced a hand on the counter because I was afraid I wasn’t strong enough to hold myself up.

  I was in love with him.

  I was in love with him.

  How had I let this happen?

  I had to fix this.

  Now.

  Good thing I had an emergency exit strategy all planned out. I always had.

  I couldn’t even taste the food. I could barely get it on my fork. I think I made conversation, but in the back of my mind I kept seeing Margot on the floor, hearing her pitiful sobs. I had to protect myself from that…I had to stick to what I knew was right for me, and that meant doing what I always said I’d do if I fell for someone.

  It meant stepping back from Quinn.

  But you’ll miss him! screamed a voice in my head. You’ll miss the sex, you’ll miss his jokes, you’ll miss his voice, his face, his kindness. You’ll miss his teasing and cooking and maybe even the cuddling. You’ll miss the way he makes you feel.

  No, I won’t, I argued back. I might miss all those other things, but right now all I feel is terror. I’m sorry that I have to sacrifice all those other things to feel safe again, but I do.

  So when he mentioned that he’d booked movers for Tuesday, I saw the opening and took it.

  “Oh, good,” I said, shocking even myself with how calm I sounded. Yes. Stay cool. Make a joke. “About time you got out of here.”

  He grinned. “I knew you’d be glad to get rid of me.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that.” I picked up my wine glass and hoped he didn’t notice the way it trembled. “This has been really fun.”

  A quizzical look passed over his face. “Yeah. It has.” A beat went by. “Isn’t it still?”

  I took a huge gulp of wine. “I guess so. I mean, with you moving out, it’ll be harder to see each other.”

  “Uh huh…” His mind was working overtime, I could see it.

  I dropped my eyes to my plate and pushed some pasta around. “And I’ve got a lot of big projects coming up at work.”

  “Really.” He set his fork on the plate with a clink.

  “Mmhm.” Oh God, oh God, don’t look up. I took a shaky breath. “So it’s probably a good time to take a breather from all this anyway.”

  “All this what?”

  I shrugged, feeling like I was stepping out onto the frozen lake, unsure how thin the ice was. One wrong step and I’d go under. “All this…time together. I won’t have it anymore. And since you’re moving out, it seems like the right decision.”

  “You’re not making sense, Jaime.” There was an edge to his tone. “What decision?”

  Don’t back down. This is the right thing. “To take a step back. Cool off. We were getting too serious anyway. And I’m not…good at that. I don’t want it. So I think we should, you know, go back to what we said this was going to be. Friends that hang out every once in a while for fun.”

  Whew.

  There. Got it out.

  He said nothing, and I was dying to know what his expression was. Angry? Hurt? Shocked? What felt like a lifetime passed in uncomfortable silence. Finally, I couldn’t resist looking up.

  He was sitting back in the chair, arms crossed. And his face said I know exactly what you’re fucking doing.

  My first reaction was to bristle a little, even though he hadn’t said a word. Did he think I was bluffing? That I’d back down? Well, I wouldn’t! This wasn’t a fucking game of chicken, this was real and it was my heart and my life and I couldn’t give it away in the blind hope that things would work out. It was too scary, too unpredictable, too unbelievable. I didn’t want to be dependent on anyone for anything! I was fine on my own! How dare he come into my life and turn it upside down this way! And why was he sitting there all silent and smoldering!? Didn’t he fucking care that I was trying to break things off? He should care, because I was serious!

  “Say something!” I finally blurted.

  I swear to God, that fucker almost smiled.

  “OK, Jaime. If that’s what you want.”

  My jaw dropped. “Is that what you want?”

  “No.”

  “Well…that’s what I want.” Fuck. Fuck! It’s what I wanted, wasn't it? Why was his reaction throwing me off? Dammit, this was just like him!

  “So you said.” He stood up and carried his half-full plate into the kitchen. A few seconds later, I heard the faucet running and the sounds of dishes being rinsed and placed in the dishwasher.

  I sat there at the table, feeling small and stubborn and angry and sad. Of all the reactions I’d thought he’d have, complaisance wasn’t one of them. Was this some kind of trick? Reverse psychology? Did he think I’d change my mind and beg to take back my words? Well, I wouldn’t. Pouting, I crossed my arms over my chest.

  Then another thought occurred to me.

  What if he really didn’t care? What if he wasn’t in love with me? What if I’d imagined all the deep, intense feelings between us? Maybe I was just a game to him after all.

  The cynic in my head spoke up, the one that continued to shame me for breaking the rules and letting him in, the one that forced me to sleep in my own bed some nights. You see? This validates everything. Of course you’re a game! For fuck’s sake, love is a game—and no one plays fair. The only way to win it is to get off the board.

  I believed the voice. But a tiny part of me wanted Quinn to fight back, to tell me I was wrong, to insist what we had was real and too good to throw away. Why wasn’t he doing it?

  He came into the dining room and reached for my plate. “Are you done?”

  “Yes.”

  After he took it into the kitchen, I downed the last of my wine and followed him in. “So that’s it, really? That’s all you have to say?”

  He didn’t look at me, just kept loading the dishes. “What do you want me to say?”

  That you love me, dammit.

  Although, if he did…what would that change? Wouldn’t that just make it worse? The problem here wasn’t that we didn’t feel the same about each other; it was that we did. And I couldn’t handle it, so I’d just fucked everything up.

  It was my last line of defense.

  “Nothing,” I snapped, irrationally angry with him for letting me walk out without a fight and furious with myself for being the kind of person who’d rather be alone than scared. Setting my empty wine glass on the counter with a clunk. “Nothing at all.”

  Fighting tears, I
stormed out of his apartment, raced up to mine, and threw myself onto my bed, where I cried so hard I didn’t even make a sound.

  All this to avoid ending up like Margot, and yet that was exactly where I was—broken-hearted, mad, and desperately wondering if I’d done the right thing.

  Twenty-Five

  QUINN

  I couldn’t sleep. All night long I lay there staring at the ceiling, cursing Jaime’s stubborn streak and her fucked-up ideas about love and relationships.

  Did she think I was stupid? Did she think I wouldn’t see through her?

  I knew her.

  There was no way I’d misjudged her over the last six weeks—she didn’t want to step back from us any more than I wanted to. It was fear, plain and simple. She was afraid of letting herself be happy with me. She saw her friend fall apart after a bad breakup, and it scared her. But rather than come to me and admit that, she’d run in the other direction. She couldn’t handle her feelings for me, so she’d just decided to turn them off.

  Well, she’d try to turn them off. But love wasn’t like a fucking oven or faucet or lamp. There was no OFF switch. How was she planning to do it? She’d said something about being friends that occasionally hung out—and I was pretty sure by “hang out” she meant fuck—but there was no way I could do that.

  Did she honestly think we could still have sex without feelings?

  She wants to think that. She wants to believe that she’s above falling for someone this way.

  But she wasn’t. I saw it in her face—she could hardly look at me while she was talking. And then she’d expected me to argue with her, as if that wouldn’t just make her dig her heels in deeper. If I’d thought for one second that hearing me say “I love you, don’t do this” would change her mind, I’d have said it.

  But that wasn't the answer.

  Jaime wasn’t like any woman I knew. She didn’t need me to declare my feelings—she knew how I felt. This really didn’t have anything to do with me.

  It was about her.

  She had to get over her fear and her skepticism, and it was something she had to do on her own.