by Fanny Merkin
“Have they snapped pictures of you with women who aren’t carrying dice inside them?” I ask.
“No,” he says flatly.
I quickly change the subject. “So you set this whole fund-raiser up. What’s it benefitting?”
“It’s to raise awareness of the dangers of drunk diving,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Drunk . . . diving?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Surely you mean drunk driving,” I say. “Like my roommate who almost killed me today.” Though we did end up drunk diving, albeit unintentionally. In a car.
Earl shakes his head. “When you see the presentation I give, I’m almost certain you’ll be persuaded. Facts don’t lie.”
As we walk through the room, Earl introduces me to the other guests. There have to be at least five hundred attendees, all wearing animal masks. There’s no way I’ll even remember their names in the morning. If I see anyone on the street in the morning, will I recognize them?
Earl leads us to a table set up facing the rest of the room. A spotlight turns on him and someone hands him a microphone. I duck out of the light.
When he talks, his voice booms over the PA system. “Welcome, friends, to our annual charity ball!”
The crowd claps wildly for him. “I hope you enjoy the program we’ve put together for you this evening. The waiters are beginning to bring around the food right now, so don’t wait for me to finish blabbing before you start eating.”
There’s polite laughter. I shift nervously in my chair. The die stashed inside my body doesn’t hurt, but I can definitely tell it’s there. It takes all my concentration and muscle skills not to let it slip out.
“We’re going to start the charity auction soon, and I do hope you’ll open up your hearts—and wallets—for us, because it’s all for a good cause: to raise awareness of drunk diving.
“Folks, this is a very serious issue. I’m about to read off some statistics that, frankly, shocked me like a car battery hooked up to my nipples.
“Did you know that alcohol is involved in almost fifty percent of the nearly forty thousand diving accidents every year? Every minute, one person in this country is killed in a drunk diving accident. You may think that this doesn’t affect you, but think again: one in three people will be involved in an alcohol-related diving accident in their lifetime.”
He continues with the facts and figures for over an hour. By the time he wraps his speech up, the waiters are serving dessert. Thank God we didn’t wait to eat until he was finished. “But enough with the grim statistics,” Earl says. “Who’s ready to start the auction?”
Chapter Nineteen
A FAST-TALKING AUCTIONEER takes the microphone from Earl and launches into the bidding rules. Earl sits down. “That was a moving speech,” I tell him.
“Thank you,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. Well, sort of on the cheek, and partly on the piggy mask.
The crowd cheers. For a second, I think it’s because of us kissing, but then I hear the words “Sold! Fifteen thousand dollars” over the PA system. Someone just bought the first edition of A Shore Thing, which I made Earl put up for auction since I couldn’t accept such an extravagant gift.
“You’re doing so much good in the world, Mr. Grey,” I tell him.
“It’s to balance out the cruelty in my own heart,” he says grimly.
I don’t say anything, because there’s no use arguing with Earl Grey when he’s PMSing.
The next item up for bid is a fantasy vacation suite in Hawaii. Without thinking, I raise my hand and scream, “A billion dollars.”
The crowd oooohs. The auctioneer is stunned speechless for a moment.
“Going once . . . twice . . . sold,” the auctioneer says, “to the young woman in the pig mask.”
I look at Earl, whose gray eyes are burning with anger beneath his mouse mask.
“What?” I say to him. “I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii.”
“Where did you get a billion dollars?” he asks.
Uh-oh. “Are we using real money? I thought we were using Monopoly money.”
“No, Anna,” he says, his voice quiet. “We’re using real money here. I guess I’ll have to lend you the billion dollars.”
“Thanks,” I say sheepishly. Oops.
“You do know, however, that the fantasy suite in Hawaii that was auctioned off is one that I own,” he says.
“Oh. I didn’t know that.”
He shakes his head. “What am I ever going to do with you, Anna Steal?”
I have no idea. I’m thinking the same thing about him.
The auction is over, and Earl is slow dancing with me on the dance floor. The house band, the Icy Dragons, is dutifully playing a faithful cover version of “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” at Earl’s request. His anger has dissipated, though he says he will probably have to liquidate one or two companies or move a few thousand jobs overseas to pay the billion dollars I owe to the drunk diving charity.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It must have been all the alcohol.”
“You haven’t been drinking, Anna,” he says.
“Then maybe the pot,” I say.
“You haven’t been smoking pot, either,” he says. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”
Earl is an expert dancer, and guides me around the dance floor with grace. “Where did you learn to dance like this?” I ask him.
“I was on Dancing with the Stars once,” he says.
“That’s so cool,” I say.
“I lost in the final round to Nicholas Sparks.”
“Is there anything that man can’t do?”
“Toss a salad,” Earl says gravely.
His body feels good close to me.
“You look so sexy in your mask,” he says. “I can’t wait to get you home and make you squeal like a pig.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I think.”
“What do you say we make our way to the men’s restroom? I don’t think I can wait until we leave to have my way with you, Anna,” he whispers in my ear.
I smile. “The bathroom? Is that sanitary?”
“Of course. You just have to use a wide stance,” he says. The band finishes the song, and most of the couples exit the dance floor for a breather. “It’s just about half past ten. How about we speed things up a bit?” the long-haired male lead singer says as the band launches into a fast-paced rendition of “It’s Raining Men.”
“I love this song!” I say.
“Me too,” Earl says. “What do you say we stick around on the dance floor and I show you some of the moves I learned on Dancing with the Stars?”
“I’m kind of clumsy,” I say. “I can barely keep up when we’re just slow dancing.”
“Don’t worry so much,” he says. “You need to forget your inhibitions and just let yourself go.”
“Well, if you insist . . .”
He smiles. “Yes, Anna, I insist.”
A handful of dancers hit the hardwood floor. Women are throwing their hands up in the air. Earl Grey, meanwhile, begins twirling me around in circles. I try not to throw up as the world spins around me. Add this to the steady rotation of the entire restaurant inside the Space Needle, and I feel even sicker—
The band’s lead singer screams passionately into the microphone as Earl tosses me into the air and catches me. It’s not raining men—it’s raining Anna Steal!
I find my footing back on the ground, but Earl slides me under his legs and pulls me back up. Suddenly, my feet are off the ground! As if the room wasn’t spinning enough as it was, now Earl Grey is swinging me through the air by my arms. If something doesn’t stop spinning soon it’s going to be raining chunks.
“Hallelujah!” the singer shouts. “It’s raining m—”
There’s a loud thunk. Earl brings me to an abrupt stop and catches me in his arms. I didn’t throw up. Thank my inner guidette! I notice that the musicians have stopped playing, though, and Earl Grey is staring wide-eyed at the Icy Dragons�
� lead singer, who is lying on his back, knocked out cold. With horror, I spot a sixty-nine-sided die on the floor next to his unconscious body.
Gulp.
Chapter Twenty
I BOARD EARL GREY’S BOAT. It’s one of those ridiculously large yachts, like in a rap video. We’re about to cross the Pacific Ocean, which has since been filled back up with rainwater since Earl drained it to save me. It’s amazing how Mother Nature can repair herself after we damage her. We’ll soon be en route to our fantasy Hawaiian suite, only a day after the horrible incident at the Space Needle. Earl thought I might need the vacation now, as I’ve been a little shaken up after almost killing the lead singer of the Icy Dragons.
After boarding the boat, the first thing I do is throw my arms in the air and yell, “I’m on a boat, motherfu—”
Earl cuts me off by raising a finger to his mouth and shushing me. He points to a sign that reads: PLEASE, FOR THE SAKE OF OTHER PASSENGERS’ SANITY, NO “I’M ON A BOAT” REFERENCES. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.
Oh. Drats.
There’s another sign just below that one that answers my next question: YOU ARE NOT THE KING OF THE WORLD, JACK.
“So I can’t say 'I’m on a boat’ or do any Titanic impressions? What are we supposed to do on a five-hour boat ride?”
“I think that’s obvious,” Earl says wickedly.
I smile. Oh yeah. Here we go.
“Fish,” he says.
I frown. Fish? Really? “What kind of fishing?”
“Tuna,” he says, smiling again. He winks at me.
“Ew,” I say. “Was that supposed to be sexy?”
“It was supposed to be. My dirty talk doesn’t turn you on?”
I shake my head. “Sometimes. But comparing a woman’s vagina to a fish is unacceptable.”
“What if I said 'goldfish’? Goldfish are colorful and uniquely beautiful. Like you, my dearest Anna.”
I shake my head again. “Just stop. No fish.”
“Okay, then what did you have in mind?”
“Drop the double entendres and let’s move on to another F-word.”
“Oh, Anna,” he says. “I thought you’d never ask. Food it is, then! Let’s go eat in the dining hall.”
It wasn’t the F-word I had in mind, of course (it was actually two F-words: friending and Facebook), but it works. I’m hungry. Plus I don’t even have a Facebook account.
The boat is now sailing on the open water. We sit down at a table in the boat’s dining room, which turns out to be an Olive Garden. “I hope you like Italian food, Anna. Olive Garden is my favorite,” Earl says as a waiter drops off two menus for us.
What do I say? I mean, yes, I love Italian food . . . but I don’t know anyone who would mistake Olive Garden for real Italian food. “I like the breadsticks,” I say cheerfully.
He laughs. “You can be honest, Anna.”
Okay, if he wants to hear it . . . “I think Olive Garden noodles taste like microwaved plastic spoons,” I say. “And don’t get me started on their clumpy sauce. They should change their name to 'Shitaly.’”
Earl gazes at me. I’m sure he’s going to toss me off the boat like chum for a shark. Instead, he just smiles. “I couldn’t agree more. And that’s why I love it. It’s another of my fifty shames, Anna.”
Wow. He’s bearing his soul to me. This is deep.
“You’re a strange man, Mr. Grey.”
“Just wait until we get to Hawaii,” he says. “You have no idea how strange I am.”
The waiter returns, and Earl orders two of everything on the menu. I’m beginning to think his relationship with food is a little screwed up. It’s a miracle that he’s in shape and has washboard abs. If I ate like he did, I would need liposuction once a week. He laughs when I tell him this.
“Oh, Anna,” he says. “If I waited a full week to have liposuction, there’s no way my abs would look like this. I have a doctor come in and suck out my fat every Monday and Thursday.”
“Do you think that’s healthy?”
“It can’t hurt,” he says.
I’m still unsure. “I’ve heard stories of people dying or being seriously injured due to cosmetic surgery.”
“Oh Anna, it’s not surgery; it’s a new procedure called 'manual suction.’ A doctor comes over and literally sucks the fat off me twice a week using a Dirt Devil.”
It’s useless to argue with the great and mighty Earl Grey—if he can buy it, then it has to be good, right?
I am glad that he’s revealing more of himself to me. No matter how shameful his activities are (eating at Olive Garden, shopping at Walmart, paying for sex), they don’t discourage me from getting close to him. If anything, I feel a stronger connection to him with each new revelation. Is there a point where I will be overwhelmed and unable to handle his secrets? Is there something so shameful that it will cause me to leave him forever? How dark can things get?
After we finish eating, I retire to the upper deck to sunbathe. I’ve brought all 1,200 pages (or whatever) of Earl’s quiz to read through again. Earl lounges on one of the lower decks, buying and selling companies on his BlackBerry.
It takes me over three hours to read through the quiz for the second time. When I’m finished, I pick up my iPad and sit under an umbrella so I can have some shade while typing. I start the e-mail app.
From: Anna Steal
Subject: Let’s Talk About Us
Date: May 23 5:05 PM
To: Earl Grey
So I revisited the quiz. And I still think you’re insane if you want me to fill it out.
Let’s begin with the obtrusive questions about “hard limits.” Am I interested in “acts involving urine, feces, fireworks, golf clubs, or animals”? Um, no. Disgusting.
Also: The questions about what parts of my life I would let you control? Over the line. No way am I going to let you tell me what to eat, or when to eat it. Is this a romantic relationship or Weight Watchers?
Anna
Less than a minute later, there’s a reply from Earl Grey. Somebody clearly wasn’t busy enough.
From: Earl Grey
Subject: Okay
Date: May 23 5:06 PM
To: Anna Steal
Dear Miss Steal—
The hard limits are negotiable. I find that it’s always best to discuss these things in advance, however, so that you don’t wake up one morning with a Cleveland steamer on your chest and wonder what you’ve gotten yourself into.
The dietary restrictions are also up for negotiation. You don’t have to eat from a prescribed list of foods all the time if that’s not what you want. We can compromise. For instance, I can provide a list of foods to be eaten as snacks (baby carrots?).
Earl Grey
CEO, The Earl Grey Corporation
I e-mail back that baby carrots might be an acceptable compromise. After I hit “send,” I put the iPad into sleep mode and set it aside. I recline in the lawn chair and close my eyes, ready to nap under the shade. Before I can drift off, however, something tickles my face. I open my eyes and what I come face-to-face with is definitely not a baby carrot.
I glance up at Earl’s grinning face. “We’ve got about an hour left,” he says. “I have an F-word in mind that can keep us occupied . . .”
After we run through a fire drill, Earl and I stroll to the front of the yacht to get a good view of our destination. I haven’t told him about the baby yet. He’s going to blame me for it; I need to wait for the right time to tell him he’s going to be a father.
“Have you ever been to Hawaii?” he asks me.
I shake my head. “I’ve never left the United States.” In the distance, I can see the sun setting over the Pacific Ocean. In the middle of the great big blue sea, a series of islands covered in beautiful lush green vegetation rises majestically.
“I can’t believe you have a place in Hawaii,” I say.
“I have an is
land in Hawaii,” he says.
Swoon.
Chapter Twenty-one
EARL GREY RUNS THE BOAT onto the beach and we hop out. We’re not dressed for the beach: he’s in his suit and I’ve changed into a sundress. It hardly matters, because the beach is deserted.
“Where is everybody?” I say.
“This is a private beach,” he says. “Just you, me, and a hundred paparazzi in boats and helicopters trying to get a glimpse of Earl Grey sunbathing nude.”
“You tan in the buff?”
“Does that surprise you, Anna?”
“A little. But only because you’re so pale.”
He shrugs. “It’s been a few weeks since I’ve been here,” he says. “C’mon.”
Earl grabs my hand and leads me to a cabin on the edge of the beach, where the sand meets the tropical forest. We step inside the cabin and he turns the lights on. Wow. What a place. There are so many things, like couches and chairs and tables. Everything is very tastefully done up in white and earth tones. The walls are lined with black velvet paintings of the greatest figures of the past century, including Elvis Presley, Steve Jobs, Usher, Jeff Foxworthy, George W. Bush, and Oprah Winfrey. “It’s beautiful,” I say.
“Of course the cabin is beautiful,” he says. “I decorated it.”
“You can decorate me,” I say. Damn my potty mouth!
Earl raises an eyebrow. “The things that come out of your mouth,” he says amusedly.
“The things that come in my mouth,” I reply.
“That’s it,” he says, loosening his tie. “I think you need to be disciplined for being so naughty.”
Uh-oh. What does he have in mind?
“We’re a ways away from your Dorm Room of Doom, so I’m not scared,” I say.
