by Tijan
“I get it. Boys have it easy, huh?”
She rolled her eyes and I wanted to chuckle. She was a pretty girl with olive skin and long dark hair that fell around her shoulders.
“So easy. I mean, no periods? How did God decide that was fair?”
I shut the first washer and flipped open a second. “Well, you’ve got to assume God is a man, right?” I pulled out my colored items and loaded up the machine. “And I guess he understood that men are such babies they wouldn’t be able to cope.”
“Babies is right. They squeal when they don’t get their way, just like infants.”
I laughed. “You’re totally right.”
“And they always think they’re right about everything. My dad went ballistic yesterday because I picked out a dress for my eighth grade dance he didn’t like.” She leaned forward, making circles in the air with her hands. “I told him I’m growing up and that wearing a strapless dress doesn’t make me a slut.”
“No, it doesn’t. But I guess dads have a different view. I can’t say because I didn’t have a father growing up.” I’d always wanted an overprotective father. Someone who would tell my boyfriends to treat me well and keep their hands to themselves. My dad hadn’t known when my eighth grade dance was, let alone had an opinion regarding my dress.
“You didn’t? Did he die?” she asked, seemingly unaware of how personal her question was.
I smiled. “No. He just wasn’t interested in me.”
The girl paused and then said, “Well my dad is entirely too interested. I thought my mom was strict.”
“What does your mom say about the dress?”
She shrugged. “Dad has the final say. Before she used to be able to talk him around, but now?” She shook her head. “I keep telling him he needs a girlfriend. He needs an adult to tell him I’m right sometimes.”
“You want your dad to have a girlfriend?” Didn’t kids want divorced parents to get back together rather than move on?
“Sure. He’s been on his own for so long and I want him to be happy. I don’t ever remember him having a girlfriend, and my mom has Jason. They’ve been married forever. I don’t want my dad to be on his own.”
Maybe her dad was still in love with her mom? “Does your father get along with your stepdad?”
“Yeah. They used to play basketball every week.”
Okay maybe her dad wasn’t hung up on her mom. “Wow, that sounds like a friendly divorce,” I said.
She frowned. “My mom and dad were never married.”
That sounded familiar. Poor girl. Loser dad not wanting to take responsibility—I knew how that one went. I stayed quiet, not wanting to make her feel bad.
“Dad just works too hard, and we have fun but I think he needs fun with a girlfriend. You know. Plus, I’d like to have someone to hang out with, go shopping with. And most of all, I’d like a baby sister. I’ve always been the only kid around, amongst a bunch of adults. I’m always the youngest and it sucks.”
I laughed. “You’re trying to get him to have another baby? You have to go easy on him.” I began to load a third washer with my whites. “He’d probably be just the same if he were married. Sounds like he cares about you. And because he is a man, your dad knows what goes on in boys’ heads.” They thought about sex a lot. I could understand her father’s concerns. She was sweet and beautiful.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Nope. I’m concentrating on my work for now.” Which was true. I wasn’t interested in the distraction a man would bring to my life at the moment. Max King had been just about sex, which was exactly what I wanted. I needed to find someone to fuck who wasn’t my boss and wasn’t an asshole.
“That’s always my dad’s answer.”
“I’m not good at picking guys.” I wasn’t sure if I wasn’t good at picking them or I wasn’t looking for the right thing. I knew what I didn’t want. I knew someone who put family first was important to me, and most of the men I came across were driven and ambitious. I didn’t want a man who didn’t understand what should be a priority. I didn’t want a man like my father.
“I figure I’ll work hard, make my own money, have fun, and see if Prince Charming shows up unexpectedly.” Seemed unlikely but I hadn’t entirely given up hope. “The thing about boys is that you can think they’re going to be one thing and they turn out to be entirely another.” Max King was a perfect example of that. I still didn’t really know who he was. Was he an asshole? Someone who cared about a downtown deli-owner’s business? Or just a man who knew how to fuck? Maybe all of the above.
“Really?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“Sure. Be careful to avoid the guys who tell you how great they are. I’m looking for a man who shows me what a great guy he is.” By ignoring me, Max had proved he was an asshole. “Judge people by their actions, not their words.”
“Everyone keeps telling me that Callum Ryder likes me, but he hasn’t asked me to the dance.”
“Does that happen in the eighth grade? You go as boy-girl couples?”
She tucked her hair around her ear. “You don’t go together. I guess it just means you’ll dance with them when you’re there.”
That made more sense. “Right. And you want Callum Ryder to ask you?”
“Well, if he likes me, I thought he would.”
“But do you like him? Don’t be satisfied with a boy just because he likes you.” I poured detergent into the machines.
“He’s popular, and good at sports.”
“Do you get butterflies in your stomach when you see him?” I asked. I might not like him, but Max was hot. And an excellent lay. And I had to admit to a couple of tiny butterflies whenever our eyes met.
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so,” she replied.
“If he doesn’t give you butterflies, he’s not worth going toe-to-toe with your dad for. He sounds protective.”
I finished loading the final washer and pressed start on all three machines.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad. He’s just not good with women.”
I laughed. “None of them are. It’s a good lesson to learn early in life.”
“And he wants me to stay a baby. I don’t want go to my eighth grade dance wearing a frilly dress that a three-year-old would wear.”
“You got a picture of the strapless one?”
She pulled out her phone, scrolled through photos, then held up her handset. The dress was a little revealing. “It’s pretty, but I think you can do better by leaving a little more to the imagination,” I replied. “Can I?” I held out my hand for her phone.
I hopped up next to her and began to scroll through websites. “Have you thought about one of those dresses with a long sheer skirt over a shorter skirt? That might make him happy.”
She grinned at me. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Harper. Finder of eighth-grade-dance dresses.”
“I’m Amanda. Needer of an eighth-grade-dance dress.”
“It’s fate,” I said, tapping the phone.
“Do you think I could do strapless if it’s long?”
Amanda’s father didn’t sound like a man who wanted his daughter to show any skin. “I don’t think strapless is the most flattering style. I think you can still show off some skin here,” I said, sweeping my hand below my neck, “without upsetting your dad. We need to find something off the shoulder. Suits all women, young and old.”
Amanda grinned at me. “That sounds like it could work.”
“And then maybe something long but with a slit up the leg?” I glanced up from the phone to see Amanda fidgeting excitedly.
We spent the next hour looking at different styles, working out what would be demure enough to please her father, but pretty enough to please her.
Eventually Amanda’s laundry was ready. “I better go back. He’ll be home from work and wondering where I am. I left a note, but he won’t read it.” She rolled her eyes. Her phone started to vibrate
, Dad flashing on the screen. “Speak of the devil.”
“Hi, Dad.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’m coming up now.”
“He has dinner ready,” she said. “I better go.”
Wow. A man so devoted to his daughter he didn’t date, and on top of that he cooked. Sounded like a keeper. “Never say no to a man who can cook. And remember, be nice to him. That’s the way to get what you want. Men get taken in so easily by a few compliments.” I winked at her.
“Thank you so much.” She flung her arms around my neck and I froze, her gesture taking me by surprise.
“I’m going shopping again next week,” she said as I squeezed her back. “Yesterday was a total bust, but at least now I won’t just try the same things again and have the same argument.”
“Exactly. Men have to think they’ve won. Never let on that really, you’ve gotten your own way.”
Amanda laughed. “I need boy lessons from you.”
“Single girl,” I said, pointing to myself. “I don’t know anything.”
“That’s not true. I’m not going to listen to a word boys say from now on. I’m only going to watch what they do.”
“You’ll go far if you remember that. It was so nice to meet you, Amanda. Have fun at your dance.”
She took her pile of clean, folded laundry and left me to my three washers, my report, and thoughts of my father. Was it because Amanda’s father was of a younger generation that he was so involved with her growing up? When I was younger, every now and then my dad had tried to get involved in my life. I even remembered him coming to a couple of my school plays. But it had never lasted long and then we wouldn’t see him for months. He’d just disappear as soon as I started to expect anything of him. I grew out of any expectation eventually.
Or maybe not. I still wanted him to ask me to go work for him, even knowing all the times he’d let me down. I guess I still wanted him to prove with his actions that he loved me. It would be like he’d turned up for every birthday and school play. My mother always told me he loved me but I never saw any evidence. So when I graduated and he didn’t offer me a job, I stopped answering his intermittent calls. And now my only communications with him happened through his lawyer.
“Is that a penis?” I asked Grace matter-of-factly as we stood in front of a canvas at the exhibition in New Jersey she’d convinced me to attend. The space wasn’t a pretty, shiny gallery in Chelsea, but a huge warehouse in the middle of some industrial area. I was pretty sure if we looked hard enough, we’d find a dead body.
“No, it’s not a penis. Why would my boyfriend paint a gigantic knob?”
“Men are weird. And obsessed with their penis,” I replied. I thought that was obvious. I was always surprised when male artists didn’t paint their junk. I was sure Van Gogh had plenty of penis drawings hidden away in his attic.
“Many of the great artists painted beautiful women,” Grace said.
“Exactly. Because they were obsessed with their penis. Case closed.”
“How’re things with your asshole boss?” Grace asked as we walked over to a plinth with an empty Perspex case on it.
I hadn’t told Grace I’d wound up naked with Max. How could I explain it to her when I didn’t understand it myself? She’d think I’d totally lost it. “Still an asshole.” Which was true, even more so now that he was ignoring me after the nakedness.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
I shrugged and took a sip of my warm white wine. “What can I do? I’m just going to grow a thick skin and stick it out.” And try not to fuck him again. Scratch that—definitively not fuck him again. I hadn’t mentioned to Grace that he lived in the same building. There wasn’t any reason to hide that piece of information, but for some reason I didn’t feel like sharing.
“Great. So I have to listen to you moan about him for the next two years?”
“You brought it up, and anyway, I have to put up with things like this for you.” I twirled my finger in the air, then peered closer at the box in front of us. It was as if someone had stolen the artwork we were meant to be looking at. “Did they forget to put something in here?” I asked.
“No, it’s supposed to be some kind of commentary on reality TV and how the public will watch anything the networks commission.” Grace pulled her eyebrows together. “I think that’s it. Or they might have just forgotten the art.”
We giggled before being interrupted by Grace’s new boyfriend, Damien, and his very tall friend.
Grace’s eyes gleamed as she said, “Harper, this is George.”
George had one of those faces people describe as friendly. Five-foot-ten, with brown hair cut short and in a blue, button-down shirt and jeans, he was quite attractive. There was nothing about him that would immediately have me pressing my red emergency button and running for the door, which had happened more often than not when Grace had introduced me to men.
“George, this is Harper, my best friend in the world. Keep her company? Damien’s taking me to look at his etchings.” Grace pulled Damien’s arm, leaving George and I alone and embarrassed.
The word setup echoed around the space.
Couldn’t we all have just stayed and talked?
“Excuse Grace. She was dropped on her head a lot,” I said.
“As a baby?” George asked.
I shook my head. “No, by me, every time she tries to set me up.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, she’s a force of nature.” A half-second of uncomfortable silence followed before George said, “Are you enjoying the art?”
“Honestly, no. I don’t get it.” I winced as I looked him in the eye.
“Thank God I’m not the only one,” he replied, smiling back at me. “Don’t tell Damien I said so, but what the fuck? Have you been into the black room?” He pointed across the space to a sectioned-off part of the warehouse. “It’s full of women holding their heads and screaming.”
“Really?” I asked, intrigued. “Women sick of bad dates? Sorry, present company excepted, of course.”
He laughed again. “Maybe. I didn’t recognize anyone, so I’m hopeful none of my exes are in there.” He winked and for the first time in my life, instead of getting an urge to put a spoon through a guy’s eye, I thought the gesture was cute. “Another drink?”
“The bar I like.” We walked toward the biggest crowd of people who all seemed to have similar taste in art—the kind that smelled like wine. “So, tell me about yourself. Was your mother a Wham! fan?”
“No, I’m named after my grandfather, not George Michael. Although I am a fan, particularly of his day-glow period.”
There weren’t many men who made me laugh. Maybe this wouldn’t turn out to be the worst setup in the world. We got fresh drinks and found a free spot, away from the crowd and the art.
“I’m an architect, I’m from Ohio, and I don’t like cats. You?”
“I’m from Sacramento,” I replied. “I don’t like cats either and I’m a researcher at a consulting firm.”
“Grace said you were new to the city. Did you move for the job?”
“Partly.” My move had been totally about King & Associates. I’d have moved anywhere to work with Max King. “And to live in New York.”
“And now that you’re doing it, is it all you thought it would be?”
“I don’t get along with my boss.”
“Oh,” he said, nodding. “But does anyone? I mean, isn’t it like the rule that you hate your boss? Isn’t he just there to stand between you and your internet surfing habit?”
I tilted my head. “I don’t resent him because he interrupts my online shopping experience. I enjoy what I do. My boss is just rude.” And gorgeous. “And arrogant.” And great in bed. “And ungrateful.” And kisses as if it was his major in college. Max King was a man who had every right to be obsessed with his penis.
George had a dimple that appeared on the left of his face when he smiled. “I have my own firm. I wonder if one of the guys working for me is standing at a
party having the exact same conversation about me.”
I winced. “God, I’m sorry. I’m sure that’s not happening—”
“Don’t sweat it. Like I said, I think it’s part of the job—some people aren’t ever going to like you.”
“And you’re okay with that?” I asked, genuinely interested.
“I’m not sure I’ve thought about it. Whether or not I’m okay with it, it’s still going to happen, right? Not everyone likes you, do they?”
I laughed. “Hey, you’ve only known me a few minutes and already you think people must hate me?”
“It’s not personal. And when you’re signing someone’s paycheck, things just get magnified. Normally, if you don’t get along with people, you don’t have chemistry with someone, you can just avoid them. But at work, you’re forced to spend time with them, so you’re just more aware that you don’t like the person.”
Generally, he made sense, but he hadn’t met the specific asshat that was Max King. “I guess.”
“How about I distract you from work one night this week, take you to dinner and prove not all bosses are evil?”
I bit the edge of my plastic cup. “This week?” I asked.
“Yeah, unless you’re booked up already.”
“No. Not booked up.” Did I want to go to dinner with George? The memory of Max’s hips pinning me to the wall of his apartment flashed through my head. I touched my neck, as if I could still feel his breath whispering against my skin. “Dinner sounds good.”
I needed new memories to replace the ones of Max King.
Monday at King & Associates was busier than I’d expected. I’d gotten pulled in on a new, high profile research project on luxury goods in China. I’d been so excited I’d almost forgotten Max King was my boss. For the first time in forever, I left work with a smile on my face, despite it being past eight.
“Hi, Barry.” I waved at the doorman as I passed his desk and pressed the elevator button. I wanted a warm bath, my bed, and maybe a smidgen of Game of Thrones.
As the doors slid open, Max stood in front of me in his workout clothes, tall, handsome, and staring at his phone.
