The Modern Gentleman

by Quinn, Meghan

  A light bulb goes off in my head. “I have just the thing.”

  “That’s the ticket,” Frank claps his hands. “Now tell me all about it.”

  * * *

  Wes: Before you get mad at me, I want you to know, I tried incredibly hard to crawl up my own testicle and drown in my unborn children, but despite valiant efforts, it was next to impossible. Which leads me to texting you. And before you tell me to eat crap and die, I want to tell you this . . .

  Wes: (Started a new text message for effect)

  Wes: (Did you get dramatic pause? Doesn’t matter, I’ll proceed.)

  Wes: I’m sorry, June. I should have told you everything. I was stupid and scared, and honestly, didn’t think you would see the article, given your non-existent penchant for technology.

  Wes: But that’s not an excuse. I should have practiced what I preach and been honest with you. I was nervous about what you would have said. I was nervous to lose you, but I guess I already have.

  Wes: I know you’re at rehearsal right now, but I want you to know I miss you and I’d love to talk with you. To make this right.

  June: What a great apology. But can I ask you something?

  Wes: Yes, of course, anything.

  June: Did you try waterboarding yourself with your own sperm?

  Wes: I’ll uh . . . I’ll try that next.

  June: Perfect.

  * * *

  “June, hey, June.” Not even bothering to stop, she passes right by our tree and continues on her walk with the general. I know on Tuesdays June uses her lunch break to walk the general. I was hoping she was going to take the usual route and when I saw her appear, I was shocked but also relieved.

  But now that I’m chasing after her, it feels weird.

  “June. Hey, June. Hold up.” I sprint after her thanks to her intense power-walking. General Fitzbum has extra pep in his step. Jesus.

  When I finally catch up and step in front of her, I spot her with a whistle in her mouth.

  “Hey, what, uh, what’s that?”

  She takes it out of her mouth for a brief second. “A rape whistle.”

  “If you’re scared, I can walk—”

  She blows it, giving it two loud toots.

  What the hell?

  She nods at me, blows it again and . . .

  Oh shit.

  I hold my hands up and back away. “Got it, okay.” I step aside and let them walk by.

  As she’s retreating, she calls over her shoulder, “If you try to write an article to make up to me, think again. Oldest trick in the book. You’re going to have to work harder than that.”

  Well, there goes that plan.

  “But there’s a chance?” I call out.

  She doesn’t say anything, just keeps walking.

  But silence is better than a solid no. I’m going to take that as a win.

  * * *

  It’s past eight o’clock on a Wednesday night, far too late to be knocking on someone’s door when they’re not expecting you, but that doesn’t stop me.

  I bounce on my feet, waiting for her to open the door. I’m shocked she let me into the building, but I’m glad for small miracles.

  When she opens the door, my breath catches in my chest when I see her, beautiful as ever in a pair of silk pajama shorts and matching top, her hair a wild mess, a bowl of popcorn in her hand.

  I forget what I’m doing, until she clears her throat and leans against the doorframe staring at me, silently saying get on with it.

  Not saying a word, I grab the poster boards I prepared and hold them in front of me, Love Actually style. Pulled an idea from one of her favorite movies.

  Unfazed, she pops popcorn into her mouth watching the show.

  Nerves bloom in me and I start the “slideshow.”

  Hi June.

  *Drops board*

  You look beautiful.

  Drop.

  I knew you weren’t going to be fazed by the compliment, but you do.

  Drop.

  I came to say I’m sorry.

  Drop.

  Please give me another chance.

  Drop.

  (I tried the waterboarding and I couldn’t produce enough . . . waterboarding inventory for full effect)

  Drop.

  So I’m trying this make-up thing again.

  Drop.

  I miss you.

  Drop.

  I need you in my life, June.

  Drop.

  Can I come in?

  I smile and try not to choke on my own heart, which seems to be clawing up my throat by the second, with every moment that passes in her silence.

  Hope simmers at the base of my spine, pleading that this idea at least gets me inside her apartment. I’m halfway there, getting into the apartment complex was roadblock number one. Roadblock number two is staring at me, shoving popcorn into her mouth, while it looks like a fishhook snagged her eyebrow and is pulling it up toward the sky.

  Hmm . . . why do I get the sense this isn’t going to go the way I was hoping?

  Lifting off the doorframe, mouthful of popcorn, she says, “You’re going to have to try harder than that, Waldorf.” She moves into her apartment, grips the door, and says, “Your effort to drown in your unborn children is appreciated, though.”

  I awkwardly wave. “Uh, anytime.”

  And then she steps back into her apartment and shuts the door.

  I glance at the discarded poster boards, my idea in shambles, but my hope has spiked. She said I’m going to have to try harder which means . . . she’s receptive to my apology.

  One step closer.

  * * *

  “June,” I say, arms spread, halfway out of the top of a limo, holding a basket of gourmet popcorn rather than flowers.

  I’ve been waiting for the past half hour, sticking half my body out of this limo, waiting for June to leave rehearsals. It seemed like a good idea at first, pulling off the end scene from Pretty Woman, but as her rehearsal seemed to run late, I quickly realized what a horrible idea this was, especially after having an empty soda can thrown at me from a rather raucous passerby.

  Now I smell like Diet Sprite, my legs are sore from not moving an inch in this death trap of a hole, and I’m sweating in this August heat wearing a three-piece suit.

  How did Richard Gere pull off this romantic gesture?

  Oh yeah, it was a movie . . .

  Horrified, June looks in my direction and stumbles to a stop, her friends in the chorus line all clutching their chests, ooing and ahhing over me.

  “Oh my God, he’s hot, June,” one of the guys says.

  “That’s The Modern Gentleman?” a girl next to June says. “I’ll take you back.” She spreads her arms open. “My name is Rebecca, use me as your test subject.”

  Dear Jesus, no.

  Thankfully, June shoos them along and then stands on the sidewalk, staring at me, arms crossed. “What the hell are you doing, Waldorf?”

  “June, my girl,” I say, trying to get out of the top of the limo, but finding it difficult. I set the basket of popcorn on the top of the roof and hop out of the top, only to have my foot get caught on the ledge of the moon roof and send me barreling down the side, along with the popcorn, and flat onto the sidewalk.

  Popcorn spills everywhere.

  For the second time since I’ve known this girl, sidewalk water climbs up my pant leg, and my tailbone breaks my rather ungraceful fall, sending blinding pain up my back.

  That is going to bruise.

  Yup. Big old bruise.

  I quickly pop to my feet, try to gather the popcorn that is not drenched in sidewalk water, and then hold the dilapidated basket out to her. With a smile, I say, “I came bearing apologies and popcorn.”

  The stern annoyance that was on her face when she first spotted me has disappeared and instead, there is almost—and I mean ALMOST—a lightness about her facial expressions.

  I watch as she studies me, her tongue running over the front of her teeth, a smile
wanting to tilt up the corners of her lips. I can practically taste the humor that’s bubbling up inside of her, but the stone-cold lioness keeps it tamped down as she says, “Better, Waldorf. Better. Not quite there yet, but better.”

  She takes the popcorn basket from me and starts to walk away.

  I call out. “You just got Pretty Womaned.”

  She looks over her shoulder and calls back, “I don’t see you climbing any fire escapes, Mr. Fancy Hair. And that’s not an invitation.”

  Then she spins back around.

  Oh I have her . . . I have her right where I want her.

  * * *

  “Have you been drinking?” I ask Roman, who is leaning against the wall, looking less than thrilled to be here.

  “What the hell do you think?” Roman asks.

  “I think you shouldn’t be drunk right before I’m about to pour my heart out to the woman I love.”

  “Dude,” Caden says, gripping my shoulder. “Not going to lie, I’ve had a few shots too.”

  “What?” I hiss. “I told you both no drinking. We need to be sharp, on point.”

  “Have you seen yourself in a mirror?” Roman asks, his voice less than pleased.

  I glance down at my bare legs and tube socks. “I look great.” I prop my sunglasses down over my eyes and say, “And you both look amazing as well. Now stop making me nervous, I already feel like throwing up.”

  “I think everyone is going to throw up when they see the three of us.” Roman pushes off the wall. “And who do I have to thank for this again?”

  “The Jonas Brothers,” I say. “Those beautiful geniuses.”

  “Christ,” Roman says.

  “I forgot the steps,” Caden says in panic.

  “You didn’t,” I snap at him, hopping up and down now. “You’re just freaking out. Stop freaking out. WE CAN’T FREAK OUT,” I shout just as the manager comes up to me.

  “Are you ready, Wes?”

  Cue the nausea.

  I gulp. “Yup. Ready.”

  “Okay.” He steps through a curtain and speaks into a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have quite a surprise for you . . .”

  Yoo-hoo! Over here!

  *WAVES FRANTICALLY*

  Phew, okay. Yeah, it’s me, June again.

  For this part, let’s swing it back over to me, huh?

  * * *

  JUNE

  “Are you sad that I’m here with you and not Wes?” my friend Phoebe asks.

  I know you don’t know who Phoebe is, given she’s had maybe one small mention through this entire story, but you can pick your bone with Wes, not me.

  If you must know, I met Phoebe in high school. She’s a lawyer, stiff as a board, and has a long-time boyfriend, so don’t be looking for a story where she’s concerned, and she is nothing like the Phoebe from Friends. Not even close. But she loves me, I love her, and she’s a good voice of reason.

  And she knows all about Wes, the good, the bad, and the ugly bruised testicle.

  She was the one who made me sit down and read every article Wes wrote about our dating adventure. She was the one who made me realize he wasn’t really using me, but telling our story. She was the one who made me realize that even though he was trying to prove his theory right, I disproved it every step of the way. And she was the one who said I’d be stupid not to forgive the man.

  Phoebe is good people—even if you don’t quite know her, trust me. She’s the sidekick every sparkly girl in a rom-com needs in her life.

  “I mean, it would have been nice if he was here, but I haven’t made it easy on him.”

  “I wish you had his fall out of the limo roof on video.”

  I chuckle. “Trust me, me too.”

  “And you still left the poor man to himself. Brutal, June.”

  “Left him with some encouraging words.” I smile, thinking back to how ridiculous he was yesterday. You just got Pretty Womaned. Seriously, he acts like he’s this alpha gentleman but in reality, he’s a giant doof.

  And I love that doof.

  Even if I’m mad at him.

  We take a seat at one of the reserved tables for the company and I pick up my water just as the manager of the restaurant comes on stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have quite a surprise for you. Please welcome to the stage, The Gents.”

  Something in my stomach twists as the curtains of Chuck’s karaoke diner part, revealing three men all wearing business shirts, no pants, white tube socks, tighty-whities, and black sunglasses.

  One of them is bearded.

  One of them is far too familiar.

  Oh my . . . God.

  My hand falls over my mouth as Wes and his friends, Caden and Roman, all sport the classic Risky Business Tom Cruise outfit.

  White thighs.

  Nervous expressions.

  Shaky hands gripping the microphones.

  Dear God, my heart might explode.

  This is Wes’s biggest fear and here he is, about to take it on, pantless, no less. I truly think I’m about to get Pretty Womaned. Yesterday was the limo, today is the “fire escape.”

  The music starts and I instantly recognize the song from one of the nights we were hanging out on Wes’s couch, listening to music.

  The Jonas Brothers.

  Quietly I chuckle, as all three men start bouncing their right leg up and down to the tune of “What a Man Gotta Do.”

  Do you know the song?

  Let’s pause for a second.

  Grab your phone . . .

  Yes, you. Grab your phone and type in “What a Man Gotta Do” by The Jonas Brothers. Give it a quick listen, and you’ll see exactly why tears of joy and laughter fill my eyes.

  Maybe just play it on repeat right now. I’m serious, it will add to the moment.

  Wesley looks up and he sings into the microphone, his voice shaky and nervous, but his confidence pronounced as all three men dance together, Wes taking the lead.

  “June, is that your man?” Charlie asks, poking me in the shoulder.

  “It is,” I answer, keeping my eyes on Wes the entire time.

  The chorus kicks in and all three men sing into their microphones and it’s the most beautifully awful thing I’ve ever heard.

  They twist, spin, play air guitar.

  They do some sort odd version of the Macarena.

  They own every last inch of the stage, and the entire restaurant is into it, clapping along with the music, getting into the song, and engaged with Mr. Fancy Hair as he hops off the stage and walks up to me, flipping his sunglasses to the top of his head.

  He takes my hand in his, singing the lyrics that ring so incredibly true for this moment, and then lifts me to my feet. His arm wraps around my waist and we sway while everyone around us cheers, mainly my fellow chorus line.

  The look in Wes’s eyes is pure adoration as he sings off-pitch to me, and it brings me so much joy that tears cascade down my cheeks. There’s no stopping them.

  And when the song finally finishes, and the room erupts with applause, Wes steps away but still holds my hand, and speaking into the microphone, he says, “June July, what does a man have to do to be locked up by you?”

  I wipe at my tears and say, “Exactly that.”

  He sets the microphone down and brings me closer, gripping both my cheeks. “I’m so fucking sorry, June. I should have been open with you. It was stupid and the epitome of being a dumbass.”

  A snort bubble comes out of me as I laugh and nod. “It was.”

  “But I’m here to tell you, even The Modern Gentleman can be a dumbass, but he also can recognize when he’s wrong. Lying to you was wrong.”

  “It was,” I answer.

  “And it won’t happen again. Please tell me I still have a shot at . . . locking you down.”

  I roll my eyes and place my hand on his chest. “You had to pull the Jonas Brothers into this, didn’t you?”

  “They spoke to me.” He chuckles and sighs. “I love you, June. I love you so f
ucking hard. Please tell me I didn’t completely blow what we have.”

  My eyes fill up again, happy tears spilling over my cheeks. “You didn’t ruin it. You just made it interesting.” I stand on my toes and press a light kiss to his lips, only to pull away and say, “I love you, too, Wesley Waldorf, so much . . . but please, for the love of God, put some pants on. Your man thighs are scaring people.”

  He chuckles and grips my cheeks tighter, bringing me to his mouth and claiming me as his in front of everyone. I melt into him, the press of his hand to my lower back, the feel of his familiar lips whispering over mine. I don’t know how it happened, but along this crazy journey of meeting a guy over dog feces, I fell in love with a smart, passionate, and fun-loving man.

  He might think he’s a gentleman in the streets, an alpha in the sheets, but in real life . . .

  Wesley Waldorf Williams is just a plain, old doof.

  And I love every doofy part of him.

  Epilogue

  WES

  “You were amazing,” I say, scooping June into my arms and spinning her around.

  “Thank you,” she says, pulling away, her stage makeup much heavier than anything I’m used to seeing her in, but she’s still beautiful.

  “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

  “You’re only saying that because you’re sleeping with me,” she coos.

  “I’m more than sleeping with you,” I say, wiggling my brows. “I’m your main squeeze.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You were much cooler when I first met you.”

  “And then you punctured my balls and all that coolness drained out of me.”

  Her nose scrunches. “Ew, Wes.”

  I chuckle. “Too far?”

  “Just a little. And I didn’t puncture you, just bruised.”

  “Felt like a puncture,” I mutter, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

  After my brilliant display of karaoke, I won my girl back. How could she not take me back after such a performance? It went viral on HYPE, thanks to our social media marketing manager who filmed the entire thing as the finale of my article.