by Sarina Bowen
I immediately bust out with a stupid grin. I have to congratulate her, of course. That must be why I find myself pulling over to hit the dial button. Some things can’t be texted. Good news has to be exchanged personally.
“Tell me,” I say as soon as she answers.
“I’m in Chicago! And I did that same scene that you, um, helped me prepare…” Her voice has a smile in it. I like that. “And it took them all of three minutes to offer me the role. My agent said she’s never had a callback that went so well.”
“That’s amazing!” There’s a little smile in my voice too. I sound really freaking chipper, and Lance is giving me a look, so I dial back on that. But then it hits me, and it’s like a cold bucket of water. “So when are you moving?” My neighbor is leaving my life as swiftly as she entered it. That’s good, right? It’s what I wished for.
I’m not sure why I feel a pain in my gut.
There’s a pause. “Moving? What the fuck, Hot Cop. I’m not moving anywhere. I get killed off after six episodes. Plus, I’ve lived in Chicago before. I don’t want that life anymore.”
“Oh.”
Ohhhh. I feel tremendous relief, and I don’t even know why.
I clear my throat. “Well that’s just great. And if you need some more help…” So much for discipline. What exactly can I offer her? We can practice that scene again? Naked? I can make love to you for hours? “You can do a ride-along with me,” I blurt out. “For research. I’d have to get it approved, but we’ve done that for a couple of writers and a reporter once, so it shouldn’t be an issue.”
As soon as I say this, I realize it’s a double-edged sword. If she was riding with me, I’d get a blessed break from Lance and his fucking soup-can pulley systems. On the other hand, she’d be sitting there looking cute and torturing me while I try to work.
But maybe she’ll turn me down.
“Hell yes,” Meg says immediately. “Ooh! This will also give me a chance to ask you a little bit more about this wedding we’re going to. That’s coming up, right?”
Hell. I try not to think about that. “Yeah. Soon.”
“Awesome. I’ll quiz you about what you’re wearing, and who we’re trying to make jealous.”
All that energy I’ve spent not thinking about kissing Meg, or touching Meg, or fucking Meg, is out the window. And I’m thinking about all the shitty things in my life.
Then she asks a question that makes me freeze up a little inside. “Who do you want to make jealous anyway?”
I can’t fucking breathe for a second. And not in a good way. “I gotta go,” I wheeze. “We’ll figure it out later.”
“Okay—?”
“Talk soon.” And I hang up. It’s kind of a dick move and I feel bad about that, but I’ve got to maintain some boundaries. Meg gets me talking and somehow I turn into Silly Putty. It’s not good.
I end the call, check the mirrors, and pull out into traffic again, hoping Lance will keep his mouth shut for a while.
No such luck.
“Hey! I’ve got another idea. If you don’t have pulleys, there’s always bungee cords.”
It’s going to be another long shift.
14 People in Pairs
Meg
When I come back from Chicago, I have to work three shifts at the bar in two days. Pretty soon I’m going to have to tell The Hip Burger about the seven-week leave I’ll need to play Elsa in Pierson of Interest. So that will be a fun conversation.
Speaking of fun, I don’t manage to run into Mac at all, which is a bummer. He doesn’t come out onto the deck when I’m out there. And he doesn’t turn up in the laundry room on lingerie day.
I should call him Officer Hot and Cold. Sometimes he’s lots of fun, and sometimes he clams up. I like a challenge. But he’s an extreme case.
These are my thoughts as I head over to meet Aubrey and Cassidy at a bar for a rare night out. They’re already at the table when I walk in, with a classic Hemingway Daiquiri in front of each of them. I know that they’re drinking Hemingway Daiquiris because I introduced the drink to them last month. “Drink this,” I’d demanded. “It’s evil and good.” It’s basically grapefruit juice and rum, with a splash of attitude.
We can all use some attitude today, I think as I sit down.
Cassidy is still upset over Greg the Gorgon. “I saw his penis, and it looked like a snake,” she’s saying as I sit down at the table. “A really skinny snake.”
“Oh, girl,” I commiserate before even saying hello. “Then you didn’t really miss out on anything.”
“That’s what I said!” Aubrey says and then immediately starts flapping her hands, sort of like a jazz dancer on cocaine. I’m really confused, until a Hemingway Daiquiri appears in front of me, its arrival timed perfectly and organized by our Wedding Planner Extraordinaire. I made good friend choices when I moved back to Michigan.
“I have a bit of a dilemma. Not a big dilemma. A mini dilemma,” she says as I take my first sip. “I don’t know what to do. Should I tell my newest bride-to-be-client that her groom made a pass at me? I mean—” she stops to take a breath—“I think it was a pass. Why else would he rub against me like that? Unless maybe he was trying to scratch a mosquito bite?”
“Not a mosquito bite,” Cassidy says. “I have three brothers and they have no trouble scratching themselves.”
“Ew. I guess that answers the question. I’ll mention it to the bride-to-be.”
There’s a little bit of silence as we all take another calming sip of rum. Then I decide to ask Aubrey the question that’s been weighing on me. “Okay, tell me the truth. In your line of work, how often do you just look at the couple and wonder why they’re getting married?”
“Hmm.” She taps her lip with an index finger. “Only about a quarter of the time.”
“Yikes.” Relationships are not for the faint of heart. “Well, I was going to ask you two how to convince a man who doesn’t want to date to fall madly in love with me. And fuck me into tomorrow. Not necessarily in that order. I’m not even sure why I’m wondering this. I should be focused on I GOT THE FUCKING PART FOR THE TV SERIES!”
“Yes, you did!” Aubrey says. “Woo-hoo!”
“Okay, I’m confused,” Cassidy admits. “Are we celebrating or are we depressed? Because I feel like I should be depressed, but I’m so happy for Meg that I want to celebrate.”
She makes an excellent point. “We’re still depressed for this first drink,” I say. “When our glasses are empty, it’s my turn to decide our feelings.”
“No unhealthy psychological boundaries there,” Aubrey says. We raise our glasses.
“To switching gears!” Cassidy says.
“To grooms who behave themselves!” Aubrey says.
“To getting my hot next-door neighbor to give me some on-the-job training,” I smugly reply.
We toast.
“That last thing needs an explanation,” says Cassidy.
So I tell them the story on how Mac offered to run lines with me, and then we ran a love scene, and then later he offered to extend the training to have me in a car with him. “He won’t go out to lunch with me. But he’s offered me a ride-along.”
Is it me, or is “ride-along” a fun euphemism? I guess everything sounds like a fun euphemism when you’ve gone as long without sex as I have.
“Oh, gosh,” Aubrey says. “That sounds dangerous. And delicious.” Her face is flushed. I think a single Hemingway has caused her to slip to the dark side. Welcome, my friend. Welcome.
“You know,” I say. “I’ve been single forever. And I’m good at it. I like it. But now I want something more.”
“You mean you want a commitment? Someone who will date only you? Someone to fall in love with and who will love you back and who will put aloe vera on your boobs when you accidentally get sunburned the one and only time you’ve taken your top off at the pool when you were in Italy?” That’s from Cassidy. Wistful Cassidy.
“Well…” I don’t burn easily. So the al
oe thing is probably moot. But is that what healthy relationships look like? My experience with those is close to zero. My messed-up and self-indulgent relationships are batting 100. Past boyfriends include: three-married-but-pretending-to-be-single men, an actor who was too good to be true and then I found out he was preparing for a role as a 1950s boyfriend for some made for TV movie, and a really nice guy who had about as much sex drive as a snail.
Then again, maybe snails have high sex drives. All that wetness.
At any rate, I have not been successful in love. And when I look around at Sadie, and her friends, and basically everyone everywhere, I just see people in pairs. And I want to be a pair. There’s no shame in asking for what you want.
I realize Cassidy and Aubrey are staring at me. “Yes,” I admit. “I want someone to rub soothing products onto my bazongas in a healthy, committed way.”
There’s a collective sigh.
“Look.” Aubrey whips out a notebook. “I am a firm believer that anything can happen if you just make appropriate plans. And you exfoliate.” Then she starts scribbling furiously.
I take a hefty drink, because I’m not quite used to the pink and rosy outlook on my new friends. My old actor friends always talked about the drama and despair in their lives. I’m still getting used to Aubrey who ends her signature with a heart.
Now she turns the notebook around and shows us what she’s drawn.
“What the fuck is that?” I ask, feeling the Hemingway in me.
“It’s a graph,” Aubrey says.
Cassidy squints. “It’s literally a line. It’s just a single line.”
“No. It’s a line that curves. See? This is where you are.” She draws a big dot at the start of the line. “This is where you end up.” She follows the arch of the line and then ends with a big heart. “And in the middle is the good stuff.”
“What good stuff?” I really want to know. Because I’m really confused.
“All the—” she looks around and leans in—“fucking.” Then she laughs. You’d think that Aubrey would giggle or twinkle or snicker, but no, she’s got a laugh like a marine. Like it’s funny, but it’s a laugh that causes pain. God, I love her. “One end is loneliness and the other is where you and Mac are together.”
“I like the in-between part. I don’t get the rest of it.”
“It’s so easy!” she says, all excited-like. “I can read couples. Like, who has chemistry. Who doesn’t. But you and Mac totally do. You just need to get on the same fucking page. And do you know where more fucking happens than anywhere else?”
“Toronto?” Cassidy guesses.
Aubrey and I turn matching confused faces to her.
“What? Canada is cold and dark. Maybe they need to stay warm.”
“Noooooo!” Aubrey says. “At weddings, dumbass!”
Then I get it. I look at the line and the dots. I think of the texts. Of the kiss. Of the scene I want to play out with Mac. The path is all right there in front of me.
Mac has already asked me to be his pretend date at this wedding. I just need to turn the pretend into the real. And how hard could that be? It’s like I’ve trained my whole life for this! I’m an actress who specializes in making the pretend real. Or at least feel real.
“Aubrey, I think you’re onto something,” I admit. “I need a plan.”
“Now she gets it!” Aubrey tears the page neatly from her notebook and hands it to me, along with the pen. “Add some detail.”
At the bottom of the page, I write “props list.” Because every good production needs props.
“Hand-washables!” Cassidy says. “That’s first on the list. What kind of lingerie would your cop like?”
“Hmm.” He’s a strong, sensible man. Just the kind to like skimpy lingerie. I write “see-through lace” on the props list. And also, “book of Hemingway quotes.”
“Ooh,” Aubrey says. “Is that a gift for him?”
“No way. It’s going to help me get into character. I love a challenge.” I flap my hands like a jazz dancer on cocaine, and another round of drinks magically appears before us. “The happy portion of the evening starts now,” I inform my friends.
“Oh, good!” Cassidy says. “Draw me a line! DO ME, AUBREY!”
Heads turn at nearby tables, because Cassidy isn’t a quiet girl after she gets a drink up her. What the hell was Greg thinking? Cassidy is great. We all are.
And Mac Maguire better get with the program.
15 Moanies
Meg
“Now cut them small, okay?” Liam says. “These should be only about an inch wide, so that you can pop the whole thing in your mouth.” He hands me a knife to cut up the pan of brownies we just made.
Personally I think one-inch brownies sounds a little stingy, but Liam is a pretty smart guy, so I do as he says. “Like this?”
“Exactly. We call these moanies,” my brother-in-law tells me as he squirts dish soap into the mixing bowl. “It’s actually Brynn’s recipe. She named them.”
“Oh. Why moanies?” Except I already have my answer. Brynn is my sister Sadie’s friend, and she gives lots of her recipes odd names.
“You’ll see. Try one.”
I pop a brownie into my mouth. “Ooohhhhhhh.” I do see. You can’t eat this without moaning.
“Yeah, but Brynn also thinks they have super powers.”
“Will I be able to fly after I eat this?”
He snorts. “No. But have you ever heard that chocolate is an aphrodisiac? Brynn thinks there’s something potent about this recipe. When I told her you needed something for that cop friend of yours, this was her pick.”
“Innnteresting,” I say, licking my lips. The brownies are a last minute treat for Mac. I’m bringing them on my ride-along, which starts in half an hour. “These are great, whatever they’re called.”
“True story.”
“Can I leave some for you and your girls? Where’d Sadie go, by the way?”
“In there. Look,” he says, nudging me toward the doorway to the den. “You’ll see. Happens every night.”
I poke my head into the den and see my sister asleep on the sofa, her baby son asleep on top of her, face down on her breast, where he’d been nursing before they both nodded off.
This is what domestic bliss looks like, I guess. Love and exhaustion in the same frame. I turn away, unsure how I feel about it. Do I want that someday?
Yes.
I go back to the kitchen, where Liam is stacking brownies into a tin for Maguire. “Great recipe. Thanks again,” I say.
“It’s no problem. Brownies are the easiest thing to bake.”
“My baking game is weak,” I remind him as I grab the mixing bowl and give it a quick scrub. “But I think I could pull these off on my own. Can I see the recipe? I could scan it with my phone.”
“Of course.” He points at a dog-eared piece of paper on the counter. The title is “Lisa’s Better Than Sex Brownies.”
I wipe off my hands and pull out my phone. “Moanies is a better name for them,” I say, lining up my photo.
“Right?” He laughs. “I don’t know why every recipe is suddenly called better than sex. I mean, they’re great brownies. But I do wonder if Lisa’s needs are being met.”
My laugh is uncomfortable, because my needs have not been met in a long time. And I’m on my way to spend six hours with the guy who rules my fantasies. But, hey, at least there will be chocolate.
“You’re the best.” I give Liam a quick hug. “My love to Sadie. I shouldn’t wake her up, right?”
“Nooooo,” he says. “Not until I get that baby into his crib without waking him.”
“Good luck with that.”
“It’s my super power. Have fun tonight, okay? But promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Of course,” I promise. “This isn’t dangerous. I’m supposed to stay in the car.”
“Be careful anyway,” he says as he walks me out.
When I pull away from their house, the brown
ies are already making my car smell like a chocolate heaven. But I’m actually starting to get a little nervous.
This isn’t dangerous, I repeat to myself on the way to the police station.
This isn’t dangerous, I tell myself under the harsh lighting at a busy reception desk. Two cops struggle past me, towing a snarling man in handcuffs.
This isn’t dangerous, I repeat when the receptionist hands me a liability disclaimer form that’s four pages long—both sides—and a pen.
I sign away my life at the bottom of the page. This is what I do for art.
“Here comes Trouble,” a gruff voice says behind me.
I whirl around at the sound of Mac’s voice, and see what passes for his smile—a lip twitch and a quick light in his eyes. He’s wearing his uniform, which looks like it was designed specifically for his square shoulders. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen him in his work gear, but every time is just like the first: I have an insane instinct to rip off his clothes. And let’s not forget that one time I tried.
But wow. His gun is holstered neatly at his side, and his badge gleams under the fluorescent lights. He’s still my sexy neighbor. He’s still Mac. But he’s like Mac amplified.
And all my apprehension leaves me at once. Because I’m perfectly safe with him. I already know it. “Hi, Copper. I just signed my life away so that I can catch some bad guys with you.”
“You mean watch me catch bad guys,” he says, giving me his familiar scowl. “You don’t get out of the car. Didn’t you read the document I sent you?”
“I skimmed it,” I say, just to piss him off. “Those are just suggestions, right?”
Someone behind him erupts with laughter, and Mac’s scowl deepens. “You see something funny?” he asks the other man.
“Every frickin’ day,” his friend says, grinning broadly.
“This is Lance, my summer intern.”
Lance straightens up and smacks Mac on the shoulder. “I’m his partner. That’s just his idea of a joke.”
