Driven to Distraction & Winging It

by Tina Wainscott

  “No!” A chorus rang out.

  Stacy’s legs already felt like overcooked spaghetti, but she pushed through the leg lifts. “Thirteen-two-three. Our first kiss should be private.”

  “Nothing’s private in Sunset City,” Ernie said.

  “A kiss’ll prove it to us,” Betty said.

  “But only a really good kiss,” Nita added.

  “Otherwise, we just can’t be sure.”

  “If we think you’re trying to fool us…”

  “We’ll have to launch an all-out assault.”

  They were all talking at once, and so fast she wasn’t sure who was saying what. It didn’t matter when the bottom line was, they still didn’t believe she and Barrett were in love.

  And that meant, if she was going to pull off this charade, she was going to have to kiss him. Maybe he’d only gotten lucky on the palm-kissing thing. He was probably a lousy kisser. He’d be dry, too clinical. Heck, he probably wouldn’t understand the purpose of kissing!

  She’d be safe then. There’d be none of that heart fluttering and stomach clenching she’d felt over the hand kissing.

  “All right, I’ll kiss him.”

  “When?” several people asked at once.

  “When we’re ready already!”

  “You’ve got to have a deadline,” Nita said as she pumped her red-sheathed leg in the air. “By the canned-food party.”

  “You don’t have to do it right in front of us, but we want to see you two smooching in the distance,” Arlene said.

  “Smooching really good,” Nita added in a threatening tone. “Or we move in.”

  Oh, boy.

  8

  STACY WAITED until long after the dinner hour before talking to Barrett about their problem. Eating dinner with him was getting to be a habit, and it was a bad habit that would be ending soon.

  She’d been in her backyard when she’d heard Weasel Boy whining. Or was that her? No, it was the dog. Maybe Barrett had forgotten to take him inside. Shadows filled the corners of her yard and made the tall green hedge look like a solid wall. The moon wasn’t big and romantic. It was only a sliver. Not enough to steal moonlit kisses, for instance.

  Pain reverberated through her body with every step she took. The jogging, followed by the workout class, had taken its toll. With what breath she’d had left, she’d made Barrett promise not to jog the last two days he was there.

  She walked around the hedge and followed the whining sound to his backyard. The soft splash of water drew her attention to the small pool lit up like an aquamarine. And swimming in that pool was Barrett. Weasel Boy was at the edge trying to figure out how to be near his master without getting wet. The dog gave her a cursory glance before returning that adoring gaze to Barrett.

  It was too bad Barrett didn’t want a pet. That poor dog was going to be lost without him. Unlike her, who would go on as before because that’s what she always did. And, she reminded herself, she would finally choose the man to father her child. She’d adopt Weasel Boy, but with a baby in her near future, she could hardly give the dog the attention he needed. Plus, he didn’t seem to want her attention, anyway.

  She walked to the edge of the pool and watched Barrett swim underwater from end to end. He came up for a breath, plunged beneath the surface and pushed off from the wall again. Ripples of watery light played over his body and made it look a lot like he was naked. Because she wanted to make absolutely sure no one would be embarrassed, she checked. He was wearing those aforementioned briefs. She no longer had to imagine what he’d look like in them.

  Not that she spent much time doing that, of course.

  She waited for him to finish his laps, but he was a man possessed, back and forth, back and forth. She walked closer to the pool. When he surfaced briefly, she touched his shoulder. He jerked his head out of the water, his breath coming heavily.

  She smiled. “I see you.”

  He smiled back. “I see you, too.” He ran his hand over his face squeegee style. Drops of water spiked his lashes. Blond hair was plastered against his forehead. “Did you come over for dinner?”

  “Dinner? It’s eight-thirty. Way past dinner time.”

  “I didn’t realize how late it was. Sometimes I lose track of time when I’m working on a project.” He pulled himself out of the water and looked around. “I also sometimes forget to get a towel. But at least I remembered to take off my clothes this time.” As he gestured down his body, he seemed to realize he was in his underwear. She, on the other hand, was too busy staring to point that out.

  “I hadn’t planned on taking a swim,” he said as he walked to where he’d tossed his pants. “I was having trouble working out some analyses, and the pool looked good.”

  Beads of water dotted his shoulders and ran down his arms. The hairs on his chest were curled tight in an interesting array of swirls. His white briefs were molded to his body. Not that she was looking there, mind you. She pulled her gaze from his briefs and said, “Looked like laps of frustration to me.”

  He slid into his pants, still dripping wet. “That would probably be a correct analysis. I’m having trouble with some of my calculations on mating habits and courtship rituals. I don’t have enough data to make a correct analysis.” He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving trails behind. “And time is running out.”

  “I didn’t realize tree snails could be so perplexing.”

  His expression went blank for a moment. “Oh, right, the tree snails. Yes, very perplexing.” He sat in one of the wrought-iron chairs near the table and did indeed look perplexed.

  She took the seat nearest him. “How do they mate?” Maybe she could get him to recite snail names again.

  “They engage in a long courtship of caressing. They rest, then caress, rest, then caress. This goes on for hours, even as long as a day.”

  “Mmm.” Oops, she’d gotten off track. She had been picturing two individuals lying about in bed all day. “Snail romance. Who would have figured? And they go on all day, you say?”

  “That’s just the courtship ritual. The actual mating can go on for another day.”

  “Wow, a whole day of foreplay? Now that’s romantic. Then what?”

  “Snails are bisexual, so they switch roles and repeat the ritual.”

  “Oh.” That popped the balloon on her romantic snail image. Well, she wasn’t here to discuss snail mating habits, anyway. Or romance. She crossed her legs and angled herself sideways in the chair, pleased to see Barrett’s gaze drift down her bare legs. Though it was mid-seventies, she’d thrown on a summery dress. “Are you cold?”

  He looked poured into the chair, legs outstretched and arms relaxed on its arms. He didn’t look the least bit cold, though his nipples were hard and puckered. Sort of the way hers had looked, she thought, and then didn’t want to think about it after all.

  “I’m quite warm, actually. You?”

  “Warm,” she said. “Look, the reason I came over, and you know I’m trying not to bother you so you can get your work done, but we have a problem.”

  “Does it involve jogging?”

  “No.”

  “Holding your hand? I didn’t mind doing that. Especially the part when I—”

  “No, no, it’s not that. We still haven’t convinced the folks here that we’re…involved. They’re giving me until tomorrow to give them more proof before the parade of women starts again.”

  She had to admit that for a man on a deadline, he didn’t look terribly upset. He did glance at his laptop computer, but that was the only indication that he was even thinking of his deadline.

  “We need to be more aroused?”

  “I…uh, yes. We need to kiss.”

  “Kiss what?”

  A warped laugh escaped her, but she held it back before it became an all-out gale. “Each other,” she said in the calmest voice she could manage. “On the lips.”

  “I knew that. I did,” he added at her questioning look. He struck a classic thinker’s pose, his hand
on his chin, his fingers stroking his mouth.

  “You do know what kissing is, don’t you?” she asked. Oh, boy, he was going to be a lousy kisser.

  “I know what kissing is.”

  “Human kissing. Not snail kissing.”

  “Snails don’t kiss. They caress.”

  “For hours, I know.”

  “I’ve kissed a few women. It was nice.”

  She forced a smile. “Nice. Oh, goody.” But isn’t that what she wanted, for him to be a crummy kisser? Yes, it was. No more of that eyes-rolling-back-in-her-head reaction. No more jelly knees.

  She pushed herself to her feet. “We have to kiss each other at the canned-food party tomorrow. Just one kiss ought to do it.” She paused. “But it has to be a good one. Nita’s going to be the judge. She’ll know if we’re just pretending. She’ll know if it’s not a good kiss.”

  He stood, too. “What is the criterion for a good kiss? Duration? Amount of movement?”

  “You can’t judge a kiss on those terms. A short kiss, a long kiss, standing, sitting, moving, not moving…none of that matters. What determines a good kiss is chemistry. It’s how high you feel, how totally lost in the moment you are. It’s…” She tried to remember what a really good kiss felt like. She was sure she’d had one or two, but nothing came to mind. “It’s the swoon factor.”

  “Swoon factor?” he repeated as though she’d uttered a foreign phrase.

  “That’s the total sum of a good kiss, how much each party swooned. And they should both swoon equally if it’s a really good kiss.”

  He shook his head. “There’s got to be a formula. A plus B equals C…or swoon, in this case. A successful kiss, like anything else, has to be broken down into various components that, when combined, invariably equal the desired result. We can factor in such variables as action versus reaction, environment, lip-to-lip ratios and…uh-oh. I’m boring you again, aren’t I?”

  She forced a smile. “I have to say that I’m amazed anyone could make a kiss sound boring. But you’ve done it.”

  He gave her a lopsided smile. “This is why I avoid the whole romance thing. You can understand why it’s easier that way.”

  “Definitely.” If she could just have his body and turn off his mind…She felt a grumble emanate from within. But no, that never worked. The swoon factor involved body plus mind plus soul. “Well, maybe if we kiss a good distance from everyone, they won’t notice.”

  Then she had a horrible realization. He might think she was a lousy kisser, too. Maybe it was true. After all, that was about as far as she usually got with men. It was a sad moment in self-esteem land.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  She’d been worried about boring someone smart like Barrett. But the truth was probably that she bored all the men she met. “I’m fine.”

  “Uh-oh, this is the kind of thing my parents did all the time. I don’t think that’s what fine sounds like.”

  It would be a disservice to him if she tried to pawn off her wan fine as fine. Not when he was trying to understand her. “When someone says fine like that, it means they’re not fine, but they don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

  “Why not just say that, then? It would be much clearer.”

  She found herself laughing. “You’re right. But that would be too easy. We wouldn’t need all those men-women books. Makes it much more interesting this way.” She headed toward the hedge. “I’m going to make a fruit salad to bring to the party.”

  “What should I bring?”

  “You don’t have to bring anything. The salad covers both of us, since we’re a couple and all.”

  How strangely wonderful those words sounded, even though they weren’t true.

  “A couple of what? Oh, a couple. I got it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

  LATER THAT NIGHT, when the doorbell rang, Stacy told herself she wasn’t feeling that jump in her pulse because she thought Barrett was at the door.

  “Hey, there, sweet thing. You made up your mind yet on who’s going to be the father of your yet-to-be-conceived child?”

  Ricky leaned in the doorway, one arm raised against the doorframe. A large damp spot was evident on the armpit of his silky blue shirt. A yellow toothpick jutted out of his mouth and bobbed as he spoke.

  “Ricky, be quiet!” She glanced around to see if any of the neighbors, especially Ernie, were around. Then she stepped back. “Come in, but you’re not getting fed, sex or a beer.”

  He sauntered in, looking suitably insulted. “I don’t come here just for…all right, sometimes I do. But you never give me any of the above, so you gotta know that’s not why I’m here now.”

  “And you can’t be the father of my child, either.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “I’m just as good as any of those guys on your mirror. Even better, ’cause I’m here. And I’m free. You don’t have to pay me or anything. And we can have fun doing it.”

  “Okay, you can go now.”

  “I just got here. I wanna help you, that’s all. I may never have a kid otherwise.”

  “I thought all these women wanted you. You’re always talking about this one and that one.”

  “They only want my body.” He looked around the room, but his gaze swung back to her. “Okay, there aren’t that many women. Only a few.” He flopped down on the couch and pulled the afghan over his lap. “All right already, there was one in the last month. Year.”

  “Nita.”

  “How’d you know?”

  Stacy slid into the chair kitty-corner to the couch and sank into the brown mushroomlike cushion. She wasn’t about to repeat Nita’s small-town analogy. “Just a rumor.”

  “See, that’s how a guy’s reputation gets besmirched. People’ll think I’m easy or something.”

  “It hasn’t helped, has it?”

  “Nah, darn it.” He seemed to deliberate for a moment before dropping to the floor in front of her on one knee. “It’s been driving me crazy, thinking about you going down to that sterile place and having some guy’s sperm injected into you. I want a little Ricky or Rickette crawling around. I want to be the one.” He really meant it, too. His hooded eyes begged her to give in.

  “I can’t. The whole thing about going to the sperm bank is that the guy never knows about his child.”

  His voice became stern, and he made a waving gesture. “And how cold is that? He doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to be involved. What kind of man does that?”

  “A man who needs money, I suppose. Or wants to contribute to the gene pool without the responsibility.”

  “And that’s another thing. Those places aren’t cheap. I could save you lots of money.”

  It was taking a small chunk of her savings to do the procedure, that was true. “Ricky, I appreciate your offer, I do. Sort of. But I don’t want complications. If I can’t have the whole shebang—the romance, the marriage—I only want the baby. Besides, if you’re the father, you’d have to support the baby. You’d be responsible.”

  He scooted closer to her chair and grabbed hold of her bare feet. “I can do the whole shebang. The romance, marriage…I can do all that.” He was giving her the pout.

  She wriggled free of his hold and tucked her feet beneath her. “Why do you want this so bad?”

  He shifted his gaze left and right before finally looking at her. “I don’t want to end up all alone. My biological clock is ticking, ticking, ticking.” He hugged her knees. “I want someone to love me, and you’re my last chance.”

  “Oh, Ricky.” She put her hands on his shoulders. Then his last words sunk past the pitiful plea. “What do you mean, I’m your last chance?”

  He sniffed and sat up. “I’m a failure at love, you’re a failure at love…seems like we’re the only people on earth who haven’t hooked up with someone yet. Hey, why are you looking all mad like that?”

  “You’re saying I’m your last-ditch effort. The last woman on earth who would have you. I�
��m not sure I can handle the flattery. Plus, you called me a failure!”

  “But only in the nicest way. Ah, come on, you know what I meant. We’re both desperate. We’re made for each other.”

  “Out! And don’t bug me again about being the father of my child. It’s not going to happen. In two days, I’ll be inseminated. And not a word to anyone about this, you hear me?”

  Ricky shuffled to the front door. “I’ll try to keep it a secret. But you know you can’t hide things from the people around here. Everybody knows everything.”

  “If you tell them, I’ll make sure you never procreate, if you know what I mean.” She slammed the door. Two days. She had two days to choose the father of her child, about three days until ovulation according to her ovulation predictor test. Ricky was right. Everyone knew everything in Sunset City. And with his big mouth holding her secret, she knew time was running out. It had to happen Monday.

  9

  STACY SNAPPED the lid on the fruit salad bowl and set it in the refrigerator. That was another good thing about the canned-food party—no cooking required. She glanced at the mushroom clock on the kitchen wall. Ten-fifteen. Since she was somehow deemed queen of the canned-food party, she was responsible for organizing things.

  She’d get the tables and chairs set up, then come back and get the fruit and Barrett. At the thought of him, she glanced at her reflection in the dining room mirror. That reaction wasn’t a good sign. He was only her pretend boyfriend. She shouldn’t be worried about how she looked for him. The really bad sign, though, was the fact that she’d put on foundation—foundation!—for the canned-food party. And pink lipstick. She’d rationalized the eye shadow, justified the hint of blush but hadn’t quite fooled herself on the cute pink-and-white-polka-dot jumpsuit.

  She changed into her more standard T-shirt—You’re Just Jealous Because the Voices Only Talk To Me—and leggings and toned down the makeup. It wasn’t as though she were trying to impress Barrett or anything. Right?

  Right.

  He probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway. Scientific guys didn’t notice stuff like that, she was pretty sure. Heck, he’d never even enjoyed a sunset!