That's when I hear the buzzing. It is coming from the console table in the foyer just off the family room.
Is that my phone?
It occurs to me that we both put our phones on the charging station by my front door the night before. I haven't looked at mine since last night, as I was consumed with other, more interesting activities. I continue to whisk my ingredients as I pad over to the console table where we left our cell phones. Oddly enough, I do not seem to have any new messages. But Samantha's phone buzzes so hard that it rattles. Curious, I peer at the screen and see Samantha is getting quite a few text messages.
Though the screen is locked, I see the sender’s urgent entreaties to call him.
I should definitely not be looking at Samantha's phone. From the context, I suspect this is the same man I kicked out of my restaurant when he showed up under false pretenses. Howard Becker. Samantha clearly hated the guy, judging by her reaction when she saw him at my offices. Her demeanor had been frosty, and it was a reaction she could not fake. But part of me wonders why she never mentioned he was trying to reach out to her. What had she really told me about her relationship with the dude? She had been rather tight-lipped when it came to him. One might even say she was secretive.
I know I shouldn't look, but I do. Even though the screen is locked, I am able to thumb through the messages, which started last night.
Unknown: Baby, I need you. It’s Beck.
Unknown: Where are you? I'm at your place. Did you forget I was coming by?
Unknown: I told you I left her. I did it to be with you.
Howard Becker had apparently arranged to meet my woman last night. Samantha arranged to meet with Howard last night...but then she came home with me?
I'm taken aback by this. Confused. I think back to the night before. I had to talk her into coming home with me. It was clear she didn't want to. I set the bowl of marinade down on the console next to the phone. I cross my arms over my chest and stare at Samantha's phone as if it’s a Jack-in-the-Box I'm expecting to pop out at any moment.
I think about Samantha's reluctance to go all in with me. All the excuses she's made, yet now, she's giving Becker another chance? Why didn't she tell me Becker was already involved when she met him?
I take in a deep breath, then exhale. All the warm feelings I had for her this morning, all the optimism I felt about our relationship — and it turns out she's been biding her time with me. Waiting for Becker to come to his senses?
I am deflated. I am aware of the fact that I'm standing there nearly naked, waiting for this woman I love to join me for breakfast, yet she is simply keeping me in reserve. I'm her Plan B, just like I was my mother's Plan B when Dad and Oliver died.
I'm not Samantha's first choice, as she has made clear to me over and over. I'm just the fool who refused to listen.
My thoughts are interrupted when slender fingers slide around my waist and I feel Samantha's head against my neck.
"Hello there, Mr. Cooper," she says. Her breath tickles my skin, and her body is soft and at least partly nude. My back goes stiff. "How are you this fine morning?" I can feel her cheek on my back, and the smile that comes with it.
"Fine," I say, still reeling and confused from Howard Becker's messages.
What did they mean?
What hadn't she told me?
The confidence I woke up with evaporates. Hard emotion sizzles in my chest, and I swallow the lump in my throat.
I turn around to face her. I always seem to forget how tall she is, and I'm mildly surprised for her to be so close, her nose just a few short inches from mine. She's wearing a blue tank top with thin straps and a pair of leggings. She is not wearing a bra, but her small breasts are perky, the aureoles dark and puffy and obvious through the thin fabric. It's one of the ones I purchased for her. She is fresh from the shower, and without her makeup, the tiny freckles on her nose and cheeks are more obvious than usual. I want to kiss her, but instead, I glower.
Her radiant smile falls when she sees the expression on my face. Her brows furrow and she blinks.
"What's wrong?" she asks, her eyes brimming with concern. I sigh. I pick up my bowl and head for the kitchen.
"I think you have messages," I say.
"I do?" she asks, and I hear puzzlement in her voice. I then hear shuffling behind me as she grabs her phone.
In the kitchen, I get the rest of the ingredients ready for French toast. Samantha follows me.
"Are you upset that Howard Becker is sending me messages?"
I turn to confront her. She looks genuinely baffled. "Why is he still sending you text messages?" I ask.
She is taken aback, and her eyes flash with irritation. "How should I know?"
"Are you interested in going back to him? Is that why you don't want to be with me?" I ask. I feel like I'm finally starting to understand why Samantha keeps pushing me away.
"No," she says, looking stricken. "Why would you think that?"
"Why does he keep trying to contact you?" I ask.
"Again, I don't know." She looks like she's barely keeping a lid on her anger. She has her hands on her hips as she scowls. "Why don't you tell me why you think he's trying to contact me? Are you jealous of Howard Becker?"
Am I jealous of Howard Becker? Hell yes, I am. But when she points it out, my hackles go up, and I take offense.
"If you don't want to be contacted, you should be able to get him to stop texting you," I point out. "I kicked him out of my restaurant, and he hasn't tried to contact me."
"He doesn't want to have sex with you," she says tartly. "Why do you care?"
"It sounds like you had plans to meet yesterday," I say. "He doesn't much like being stood up. Did you forget you were supposed to meet with him? Are you denying he drops by your condo on a regular basis?"
She freezes.
"What did you just say?" she demands. "Are you having my building watched? The only time Howard comes by my place is when he’s stalking me!"
I cringe inwardly. That wasn’t the reaction I had anticipated.
"Did you have me followed? Are you aware of the fact that short of an order of protection, I can’t control who goes to my building?" She raises her voice. Her eyes narrow to slits. My inward cringe becomes an outward one.
“So you are in communication with him? Did you know he’s single again? This could be your chance to get him back,” I say sarcastically.
“I’m not surprised he broke up with his girlfriend...his wife,” she says. She pinches the bridge of her nose in frustration.
"Why don't you want to talk about him?" I demand. I should probably stop talking now, but I can’t. This is the first time I’ve gotten her to talk to me.
She glares at me. "I'm going home," she says. "I knew this was a mistake."
She turns on her heel and goes back to the bedroom.
"What's a mistake?" I find myself yelling at her retreating back.
In the bedroom, she struggles out of the leggings I bought her, hopping around with one leg still trapped in black fabric. She has a hand on the wall to brace herself. I go to help her maintain her balance, and she slaps my hand away.
"Sheila will be back next week," she says. Her words are clipped, and her voice trembles with anger. "I'll make sure you have everything you need for the community garden and..." she waves a hand expansively, "the investors."
Panic grips me.
"You're leaving?" I ask, incredulous.
"Yes, I'm leaving," she says.
I stand there like an idiot, in my underwear, stunned.
"Why?" I ask. "Just because I asked you about Howard Becker?"
She pauses in the act of putting on the previous evening's suit. "Are you seriously asking me that right now?"
"Why wouldn't I ask you that?" I ask. "You won't talk about him? Why is that?"
"None of your goddamn business," she whisper-yells. "Everything you need to know, I already told you everything you need to know about Howard. Notice how I don’t feel c
ompelled to ask about your old girlfriends?"
This gives me pause for about five seconds. Samantha continues angrily re-dressing. She gets her clothes on, and tucks her used underwear into her purse. The things I so carefully picked out for her at Target are discarded in a pile on the floor at the foot of the bed. This includes the leopard-print lacy thong I bought her.
"You're going out without underwear?" I ask. I'm not so sure she should be running around the city without underwear.
"Again, this is none of your business," she says.
"I was going to make you breakfast," I say. She gives me a sarcastic eye roll.
"I'll wrap things up over the weekend and leave you an update at the office," she says.
I stand in the doorway, preventing her from leaving, my arms crossed over my chest.
"We need to talk this out," I say.
"There's nothing to talk about," she retorts. "I told you this was a bad idea from the start."
"No, it's not," I say. She reaches around me and puts a hand on the doorknob and tries to turn it. She shoots me an angry glare.
Finally, this whole conversation brings my frustration level to a boiling point. Panicked, I go all in.
"Samantha, I love you," I say.
She stops jiggling the door. Her eyes come to mine, and she freezes. Her expression is tender, then puzzled, then angry again. I can see in her eyes that she doesn't believe me.
"I mean it," which sounds lame to my own ears.
"Open the door, Lincoln," she hisses.
We stand there, seething at each other. She jiggles the doorknob again and glares again.
Finally, I sigh and let her pass. The front door closes in my face.
Chapter Twenty-Four: Samantha
I spend the Saturday afternoon after I ended things with Lincoln moping and binge-watching the sordid Netflix dating show Lincoln and I watched that first time we banged at my place. I hadn't finished the series, even though Netflix says I finished the rest of the episodes. I think I must have finished the rest of the series while I was high on cold medication and/or in the thrall of fever dreams a couple of weeks ago. I don't remember watching it. It is far sleazier than I remember, the singles more cutthroat and ruthless as they ostensibly try to find their perfect matches.
Thinking about being feverish makes me remember how Lincoln took such good care of me when I was ill. I feel grumpy with myself because I should not be dwelling on such things. Breaking up—or whatever term is appropriate for someone I was only casually involved with—with Lincoln was the right choice for me. Being involved with a coworker is a terrible idea. I learned that when I was involved with Howard. Sleeping with someone you work with—and who also signs you checks—is top of the list of things to do to sabotage your career.
I get texts and calls from both Lincoln and Howard Becker. I blocked Becker weeks ago, but he's finding ways to reach out to me anyway, using some kind of a texting service that makes it appear the texts are coming from random phone numbers. According to several of his pleading messages, it appears he's broken up with his fiancée. He says he wants to "talk," which in guy speak equates to, "How about a booty call for old time's sake?"
Lincoln, though...
I love you.
The thrill I'd experienced at his confession makes my heart throb with equal parts pain and glee when I think of it.
I haven't yet blocked Lincoln. I'm not sure why. I will admit to being extremely hurt by the way he seemed to be accusing me of...what, exactly? Fooling around with the ex who lied to me, played me, then got me fired from a job I loved? That doesn’t make sense. But Lincoln at his core is a decent guy, just irrationally suspicious. And not the guy for me. In time, he will move on, and I'll learn to live without him. I do have GoForYou to keep me busy, after all.
On the screen, several of the couples relax in a hot tub. I really have no idea what is going on in this show, and I'm beginning to think I never will.
Frustrated, I turn off my Netflix and start flipping through cable channels. There is absolutely nothing on worth watching.
With a sigh, I reach for my phone to call Hannah.
She answers the phone sounding frazzled. I hear the muted sounds of a kid's program in the background.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey, back," she says. "What's up?"
"Nothing much," I say.
Hannah knows Lincoln and I have hooked up, and she is team "keep fucking Lincoln” all the way, so I haven't told her what happened between us earlier Saturday morning.
She turns on her video chat, and I see her in her kitchen. She's wearing her Daisy Duke shorts and a tank top, which she once told me was her standard post-divorce cougar uniform. She's got her phone propped up on something on top of the refrigerator so that my view of her is similar to that of a convenience store security camera.
"What are you making?" I ask. Watching her cook has me heaving myself up from my couch and padding to my own kitchen.
"Spaghetti, for later," she shrugs. "Where's your new man? Is he taking you out to dinner tonight?"
I had not expected Hannah to ask me that, and I cringe at her words. "He's not my man," I say. "And anyway, I've decided that our little fling is over."
I peer into my refrigerator. It is empty save for the few groceries Lincoln picked up for me several weeks ago. This includes a half-gallon of almond milk, a small container of strawberries, a carton of eggs, and a few other fresh vegetables that I'd chosen to hide in my crisper drawer. I proceed to remove the eggs, strawberries, and assorted veggies to determine what could be made into a meal. When I open the strawberry container, I realize to my chagrin that in the weeks since the fruit had been placed in my refrigerator, the strawberries have managed to grow fur. Aghast, I hold the container at arm's length and dump the whole mess in the trash with a shudder.
Further exploration reveals a similar moldy, science experiment sort of fate for the lettuce, green beans, tomatoes, and other fresh produce Lincoln had so carefully purchased for me. I feel a twinge of regret at having to throw it all away. Lincoln had anal-retentively stored each bit of produce in a Rubbermaid container, placing the tomatoes and green beans separately in a nest of paper towels to absorb excess moisture. He'd written the storage date on Scotch tape with a Sharpie, then stuck it on the lid of each container. Through my negligence, I fucked up an idiot-proof system. I don’t want to leave my unit to search for takeout, so I decide on scrambled eggs. I'm pretty sure eggs have an impressive shelf life when refrigerated.
When I turned my attention back to my phone, it is to the scowling face of my best friend.
"You broke up with him?" she asks, giving me the stink eye.
"It's not really like that," I say. "He's not my man, and we weren't really in a relationship, so there was no break up."
I turn my attention back to my meal prep. I crack three eggs into a bowl and start whisking. I pour this into a preheated pan, using my fork to stir the eggs. I chop a few scallions that, while sad-looking when I extracted them from the refrigerator, were fine for my purposes, especially since I am able to cut off the gnarly bits. I add them to the eggs, season with a little salt and pepper, and wait for them to finish cooking.
When I sit to eat, I see my bestie still glaring at me. "What?" I shrug.
"Why? Did you break up with him?" she asks. My friend looks incredulous.
"I told you, it wasn't a real breakup," I reiterate with a shrug that I hope looks as if I couldn't care less.
She looks over her shoulder into the family room where her children are, then turns her attention back to me.
"Didn’t have a chance to really talk about him while you were together," she says. "I mean, I want more details. Just how good is the D? Because your boy Lincoln definitely has that BDE vibe going."
I choke on the morsel of scrambled eggs in my mouth. I start coughing, my eyes watering and my throat spasming. I slide off the breakfast bar stool and rush to the sink where I pour myself a glass of water an
d tear a paper towel off the roll I keep over my sink.
When my coughing is under control, I return to the breakfast bar and pick up my phone. Hannah's brown face appears on the screen. She has one eyebrow cocked and her arms crossed over her chest.
"You never even told me what you're working with," she says matter-of-factly. "I can tell he doesn't have one of those breakfast sausage-sized dicks. I mean, was he more like a cucumber...or a very big cucumber?"
I sputter. I reach for my glass of water and take small sips to avoid another coughing fit.
"Is he small?" She squints her eyes into slits, as if she's examining a specimen under a microscope. "Or is he as big as he looks?" She widens her eyes dramatically, her mouth forming an "O", and she holds her cheeks as if she's Kevin from "Home Alone."
"Please stop talking," I choke as the coughing turns into hysterical laughing. "I have no idea why we're friends," I inform her.
Hannah, unperturbed by the fact she's almost got me choking to death, simply smiles at me, batting her lashes.
"You know you love me," she says, giving me her best Claire Huxtable, understanding mom smile. "And it's obvious you want me for my stellar relationship advice. What would you do without me?"
I say nothing to this.
"Tell me what happened," she says. "I can tell by looking at you that you're not happy. Maybe you should tell me what's bothering you. Maybe I can help."
I stick my tongue in my cheek, thinking. Finally, with a sigh, I go ahead and spill my guts. I tell her about the fact that Howard Becker is still trying to contact me and Lincoln saw his texts and jumped to the wrong conclusion. I tell her how I stormed out of his home, feeling sad and betrayed, as well as justifiably angry that he would jump to the worst possible conclusion. When I tried to insist that I haven't known Lincoln long enough for all of this to bother me so much, she points out that after being betrayed by Howard, it's only natural I would react this way.
"You have written that you're expecting Lincoln to be just like Howard," she says. "I don't know all the details about how things were with Howard, but I have a hard time imagining that cheating snake would make you breakfast the morning after he spent the night at your place. I never met Howard—and I'm guessing because he didn't want to meet your friends."
Tough Customer: A Hero Club Novel Page 18