An oomph rushes out of me, and I lose my grip.
“That was not nice,” I say as she grabs my hair and drags me beneath her tiny self.
“Never said I was.”
And that’s how I lose to an old lady yet again. Cheater.
Charlotte and Dune help me out of the pool as Bev pumps her arms like she just won a gold medal.
“You did good,” Dune says.
“You really did,” Charlotte agrees, handing me a towel. “That move you did in the beginning where you slid across the pool was so impressive.”
“Whatever.” My goopy shoulders slump. “You don’t have to lie to me. Next time, I’m cheating.”
“I like that you’ve accepted there will be a next time,” Charlotte says with amusement in her eyes.
After Bev finishes her victory lap in the Jell-O pool, she climbs out and walks over to us. “Call me tomorrow. We’ll do that deal we talked about.”
“But I lost.”
“Maybe so.” She pats my arm. “But you’re family.”
Charlotte squeals, and I do too as I wrap Bev in a hug. She can kick me in the vagina any day. I have an exit plan.
“It’s weird to be out with you and Austin as a couple,” Charlotte whispers to me as we trail behind Austin and James on our first double date. It’s a real relationship-y thing to be doing, which my friend clearly recognizes. “Do you feel weird?”
“I always feel weird.”
And that’s the truth. I’m not sure how to navigate this new territory of us as a couple with friends. It’s James’s birthday, so we’ve decided to have fancy drinks out on the town. He’s a bit of an introvert and hanging out with Charlotte’s bestest friends for his birthday is as much of a party as he wants. I’m delighted to show them the speakeasy, seeing as Logan is out of town.
As we approach the hidden entrance, I can’t help but wonder for a moment if it’s rude to take them to the place where I had my first date with someone else. But I had a really fun night there. And really delicious drinks. So why wouldn’t I want to share another fun night there with my friends?
It’s not like I’ll never go to the tapas place again because we once had dinner there. It’s silly to avoid places you loved because you’re no longer with the person who introduced you to it.
Right?
Right.
At the door, I do the special secret knock, and we’re ushered inside and back in time.
“Ah, I love this,” Charlotte says.
“Yeah. This is cool,” James says, checking out the suspender-clad servers moving about the area.
We find an empty table near the jazz band and James pulls Charlotte into his lap. “How are you feeling, mama?”
“Good,” she says, dropping a sweet kiss on his nose.
I take my cue from them and slide onto Austin’s knee.
“Hey there,” he says with a grin, but also surprised by my transition into his bubble. “Can I ask why you’re sitting on me?”
I drape my arm over his shoulder. “We’re a couple now.”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t fight it.”
He doesn’t, and to his credit, wraps his arm around me, even though he seems confused by my intrusion.
But really, I don’t know what I’m doing sitting here either. I just know I like having the chance to act outwardly the way I’ve felt inside forever.
But…
I don’t want to do the thing Lucy did at the bachelorette party, being the snake to his Britney. So I end up just sort of perching on him, a single butt-bone on his thigh, which is not comfortable for either of us, or satisfying in any way.
A tall guy with biceps bursting out of his striped shirt takes our order and as Charlotte asks for a virgin mint julep, I scoot off Austin’s lap into my own seat. Even if that didn’t go over well, no one seems to notice. Our conversation flows, and I want to pinch myself, because I’m on a dang double date with Austin as my date!
It’s exciting. But as the night goes on, I realize there are just a hundred ways I don’t know how to bridge the transition.
For example, it’s funny that in moments like these, where we’re laughing and having fun, I used to say “God, I love you guys” when we were hanging out and agreeing on stuff all the time, but now that we’re together, I’m scared to go anywhere near the word. When Austin makes a corny joke and everyone groans, usually I’d say, “This is why we love you.”
Can’t say that shit anymore.
Oh, well. Maybe things will get easier. If not, at least I have an exit plan.
Nine
Meet me at 4PM by the little tree in the courtyard of Artopia. I have something planned that will make you happy.
“Your guy is so romantic,” Anna gushes while we swoon over the fragrant bouquet of wildflowers just delivered to me at It’s Clay Time. “You kind of have the perfect life. You know that, right?”
“My life is far from perfect,” I say, lifting the crinkly wrapper surrounding the bushel of flowers to take a whiff. “But how awesome someone thinks it is.”
With a dazed grin, I tuck the typewritten card back in the attached envelope. Austin never let on he was planning something special today. Before I left for work this morning, he said he was pulling a double shift and wouldn’t be home until late tonight. Which is the norm these days. I’m still trying to build a bridge over the troubled transition-waters, but we’re like two ships passing in the night.
“Seriously? Let me count all the ways it’s perfect.” She counts off her fingers. “You’ve got a booming side business and a genius side-side business. A hot guy planning romantic dates and sending you beautiful flowers. You’ve got wonderful friends and great hair. How is that not perfect? When Charlotte makes new mommy friends, I’d like to apply for the position of your new bestie, so maybe some of your good luck will rub off on me.”
That’s super sweet. She thinks I’m worthy of best friend status. My hair is nowhere as shiny as Lucy’s, but it is shinier than hers, and…
“Wait.” I tilt my head and ask the thing I don’t want to know the answer to, “What do you mean by new mommy friends?”
My question earns a slight side-eye from her. “You must’ve heard about this… Most people start hanging with other mothers once they have babies. It’s the way of the universe. Like a baby cult. My sister is the perfect example. Once Carter was old enough to walk, she started making playdates with other mothers she met at the park. Socialization and new stuff in common and all that.”
“Ah.”
She moves away to help a customer, leaving me to deal with the disarray she innocently caused in my mind.
Her words haunt me on the drive to Artopia, spooking me into a panic. In all the scenarios I’ve worked through my head, Charlotte finding new mom friends who would oust me wasn’t one of them. I mean, no one can replace me in Charlotte’s inner circle. I’m sure she’ll make mom friends, but they won’t have our history or connection.
Right?
They haven’t held her hair back while she hugged the toilet after she smelled eggs frying or dried her tears over her jeans no longer zipping. They certainly didn’t help pick out the cute maternity wardrobe she now owns or purchase a pair of mom jeans at her request just so she wouldn’t feel alone. And they absolutely didn’t plan the Baby Is Coming Pinterest board. They haven’t spent hours with Charlotte picking out the travel theme to paint on Baby Charlotte’s walls—because this baby is going places—nor will they have painted those scenes for Baby Charlotte to study.
But they will have the one thing I don’t possess. Shared experience with babies.
I can picture it now. They’ll all be rocking babies, patting their puffy diapered bottoms, and I’ll be just rocking.
Oh God.
What if Baby Charlotte doesn’t like me?
That’s a scenario I don’t want to even consider at this moment. Just because cats don’t like me doesn’t mean a tiny human won’t.
As
I park in the crowded lot of Artopia, I make a mental note to check into one of those fake pregnancy bellies so I can go through the rest of this pregnancy with Charlotte. Bet none of the new interloping mom friends would do that for her.
Even better than a mental note, I send a text to Charlotte, because there is no time to lose when other mothers are waiting to encroach on friendship territory.
Random thought…should I get one of those sympathy bellies to commiserate with you? So we can have a lived experience?
The fuck is wrong with you? Do it immediately. I need someone else to feel my pain. #bellybesties
Well, it’s settled. Phew. My world settles now that I have a plan. Sunlight warms my shoulders as I cross the parking lot to the expansive courtyard full of artsy people lounging on blankets, enjoying the summer afternoon, as I scope out the place looking for Austin.
Across the lawn, next to a maple sapling, I spot glossy, dark hair being played with by the summer breeze. While his back is to me, I slow to a snail’s pace to ogle the long legs and sculpted calves leading up to a muscular ass. It’s grabbable, so I do, because I can do things like this now.
“Hi,” I say, palming a handful of posterior deliciousness.
And then I freeze. The butt cheek I’m holding, while a similar ratio of squishy and firm, doesn’t belong to Austin. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. It belongs to the last person I expected to see.
Logan.
I slow blink. They, uh, do look alike.
“Hey, you.” His baby blues twinkle with mirth. “Is that the new handshake? Can I shake yours?”
I jerk my cheating hand away from his buttocks. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were…” Seems exceptionally cruel to finish that sentence the way I meant to, so I shift to, “Gone. What are you doing here? I thought you were in Texas.”
“I cancelled some tour dates to fly home and see you.”
Birds trill, filling the silence between us until I finally find my voice to ask, “Why?”
“To woo you.” He looks at the hand now resting on my throat, because I think I swallowed my tongue and cannot speak. “I know you’re dating Austin, but I still don’t see a ring. And I don’t feel like I had time to properly address things before I left.”
Maybe I didn’t break up with him correctly? And maybe it’s time to consider a malpractice suit against the internet experts.
“Well, I wouldn’t think wooing would be wise,” I say gently.
“Say that three times fast.”
I smile. “Logan, I think—”
“Please, just let me do this,” he interrupts and then lets out a sigh. “I won’t woo you. Okay? I reserved two spots for a Bob Ross paint-along and it’s a shame for them to go to waste.”
Things click into place as I stare at him, dumbstruck. Meet him by the little tree because he has something that will make me happy. Happy little trees. He knows about my Bob Ross girlhood crush, and oh, no!
I’m being Grand Gestured by the wrong guy.
It’s a storybook grand gesture, too, something you’d read at the end of a novel, from the guy you expect to get the girl.
But I’m the wrong girl…and he’s not the right guy.
“The bouquet,” I whisper. “They’re from his paintings aren’t they?”
He nods, and I briefly close my eyes. Wooing is making me woozy. This is overwhelming—so thoughtful—and utterly wrong.
I broke up with him out of the blue, and maybe he just needs this closure to move on from me. I can’t fault him for trying. From experience, I’ve had breakups where everything was wrong and it still shocked me they ended things. So it’s understandable he’s having trouble letting go of what he thinks is someone who is perfect for him.
“Please?” he says. “It’s only an hour.”
What kind of asshole would I be to walk away right now and not partake? “Okay, let’s go paint some happy trees.”
We head inside Artopia, a cavernous building with various art exhibits and stores selling everything from hand-painted T-shirts to art supplies. At the directory kiosk, we find the Bob Ross Paint-along directions and follow the signs to the second floor full of conference rooms hosting various events. Logan checks us in with a lanky man who looks like he escaped the seventies. Martin, showing a lot of hairy chest and wearing a gold chain, is a Certified Ross Instructor, and I can’t lie…it’s so cool.
I don’t want to enjoy it as much as I am. Is there a rule I must have a horrible time to give him closure? Probably, so I only half-smile at the other people already sitting behind easels as we cross the marble floor to the empty wooden chairs in the back row.
Don’t judge me, but my pulse races like a pack of thoroughbreds as I finger a rainbow of Bob Ross oil paint tubes. Prussian Blue, Dark Sienna, Titanium White, Alizarin Crimson, Cadmium Yellow, Midnight Black, and Bright Red. At the end of the rainbow sits a golden painter’s knife, landscape and fan brush.
Martin instructs us to swirl some colors on the canvas and when we’re done, he says, “Today we’re painting along to Happy Accident, season eleven, episode thirteen. The Joy of Painting wasn’t just learning how to paint, it was also therapy for many people. So, I want you to really listen to what he’s saying.”
A big screen TV mounted on the wall turns on and Bob Ross’s unmistakable image guides us into fixing our mistakes. He uses his knife to scrape the paint off his canvas and we do the same.
“We don’t make mistakes, just happy little accidents,” Bob says.
It’s as if he’s speaking directly to me. Because this is no doubt a mistake to sit here while Logan smiles at me, swiping away at his canvas. As the tutorial progresses, I can’t even look at Logan as we paint a new landscape with a babbling creek and an abundance of happy little trees.
“Ever make mistakes in life? Let’s make them birds. Yeah, they’re birds now,” Bob says in his signature mellow voice.
If only it were that easy.
“Wow, that’s a lot of birds. Kind of looks like that movie,” Logan teases, peering over at my canvas.
I laugh, but I shouldn’t. So I add another bird and let it fly away with the rest.
Bob has so many insightful things to say…
“Trees cover up a multitude of sins.”
“Never think about the mistakes you made. Think about the mistakes you will make.”
And most important…
“Anytime you learn, you gain.”
By the time we’re done, I feel a little at peace with some of my happy accidents. There’s always a do-over. RIP, devil.
“That was amazing,” I say to Logan in the parking lot. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Thank you for humoring me. I guess there’s no chance for dinner?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m sorry. I really want you to be happy—”
“I get it,” he interrupts, opening my door. “I’ll be okay. Maybe we can meet up for coffee before I leave to fly back to Texas?”
“I’ll have to let you know.” Briefly, I search his face and he doesn’t seem devastated…just resigned. Not pleased.
It’s a milder version of the look on Austin’s face when I arrive home and tell him what happened with Logan.
Austin’s definitely not pleased. Doi.
“You can’t just immediately start hanging with him like he’s Dune.” He combs his fingers through his hair, leaving peaks of frustration. “Dune I can handle because I know there was nothing there between you two and he knows what’s up. But Logan?”
“I understand what you’re saying, but it was unexpected.”
“I don’t have Lucy over for drinks… Maybe someday, but not when there hasn’t been closure.”
“I thought I was giving him closure by hanging out with him.”
“Were you? Or were you still scared to admit this is real?”
“I’m not scared of anything. I can’t believe you still doubt me. I garden with you. We have raised tomatoes from seeds to sauce.”
He
wisely chooses not to point out that he planted the seeds and cooked the sauce. It’s the principle.
“I have to run to the restaurant to sign some paperwork.” He stares at me for what feels like an eternity before saying, “You understand where I’m coming from, right?”
“Yes,” I soothe him, rising up to brush my lips against his.
He leaves to shower and I muse over our first fight. Not an epic fight, nevertheless, his doubts unsettle me. I’m not scared. I’ll prove my, um, like? We haven’t said the L word yet, but I’ll prove it. And I know exactly how I’ll do it.
Ten
When fulfilling a fantasy, the most important item to have on hand is a fire extinguisher. People would probably think it’s required because the fantasy is such a scorcher it needs extinguishing, lest it burn everything to the ground. Welp. They’d be wrong.
Part of Austin’s fantasy involved me cooking, so even if it’s not my thing, I have to make an attempt to satisfy my man and show him how unafraid I am. Silly me decided the least amount of catastrophe would involve preparing a gourmet salad made with fresh ingredients from the garden, topped with thin slices of delectable pan-seared ribeye. The internet pictures were drool worthy, but it would’ve been nice if the recipe had mentioned the important detail that when you sear steaks at a high temperature plumes of smoke ensue.
“No need to panic,” I say to the empathy baby bump around my waist as every fire alarm in the house shrieks.
For the first time, I fully understand Charlotte’s complaints. It’s cumbersome and nearly impossible to bend over wearing this heavy silicon. My feet have completely disappeared, but I’m moving, so I know they’re still there. Austin won’t be home for another thirty minutes, and by the time he arrives, he’ll never know what took place before I fulfilled his fantasy. The belly will be gone, and probably never worn again, and all he’ll know is the woman wearing nothing—and I do mean nothing—but a newly purchased apron and fuck-me heels cooked a delicious meal that I’ll rename blackened instead of pan-seared.
Summer Lovin: A Dating Season Novella Page 6