The Anti-Boyfriend

by Ward, Penelope

  “I would love that,” I said.

  “I have one of our old performances on DVD. I haven’t watched it in ages.”

  “Break it out. I’m dying to see it.”

  She stood up. “Okay, let me get it.”

  I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants as she took off in search of the DVD.

  When she returned, I could’ve sworn I saw her hand tremble as she popped it into the DVD player.

  “Are you nervous to show me?”

  Carys smiled shyly. “A little.”

  “Don’t be.”

  She pressed play. At first, the camera was so far away, it was hard to tell which dancer was her.

  “I’m easy to spot. That’s me in black,” she said, pointing to the screen. “We were performing Swan Lake.”

  “The Black Swan. I don’t know ballet, but I know enough to know you’re the Black Swan.”

  “You must have seen the movie with Natalie Portman.” She laughed.

  “I did, indeed.” I sat transfixed. The orchestral music, the lighting—this was the real deal.

  A guy dressed in tights lifted Carys into the air, her legs spreading apart with impressive flexibility. After landing on her feet, she twirled with beautiful precision. The smile on her face exuded confidence and pride as she lifted onto her toes and raised her arms as if reaching for the stars. She was a star. And seeing this drove home the loss she’d suffered. This hadn’t been a hobby. This was a calling. My heart broke to know it had been taken from her.

  Her male partner almost seemed like a tool to showcase Carys’s talent. He guided her along, but she was the focal point. She really shined when she danced alone. Without the guy invading her space, Carys spun around free as a bird. Flawless.

  “It’s like I can feel your emotions,” I told her. “Not only by looking at your expressions but in your movements.”

  “That’s pretty much the biggest compliment you could give me.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “One of my teachers used to say that was the difference between a good dancer and a great one. She said our purpose in a performance was not to simply move our bodies or entertain, but to express our emotions through dance. Then ideally, those feelings would also be experienced by anyone watching. So I always tried to keep that in mind.”

  “It’s fucking beautiful.” My eyes met hers. “Truly.” I didn’t merely mean it. I meant her.

  Her eyes glistened. “Thank you.”

  For the first time in a long time, I felt like tearing up, too, and it had nothing to do with my own shit. What a tremendous loss she’d suffered—the world had suffered the day this woman stopped being able to perform. The emotions pummeling me were too much. It was time to go before I did or said something I’d regret. I didn’t want to be rude and leave before she turned off the video. But I vowed to make my exit at the first opportunity.

  “I’m blown away by your talent,” I told her when the video ended. “Thank you again for showing it to me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Carys put the DVD back in the case and stared at it a moment before snapping it closed.

  “I think I should probably head back,” I said.

  She seemed surprised. “Oh…okay. Yeah. It’s getting late, I suppose.”

  “Yeah.”

  We stood and faced each other. A few tense seconds passed—tense seconds where the right thing to do felt like kissing her, even though I knew that would be very wrong.

  Carys rubbed her arms. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Are you kidding? Thank you for having me, for preparing that amazing food, for listening to my sob story, and most of all, for sharing that video with me. It really means a lot that you did.”

  “After what you told me tonight, I definitely felt more comfortable.”

  “Yeah.” I smiled, and after a few seconds of awkward silence, I said, “Well…have a good night.”

  I wasn’t prepared for her to reach out and hug me. I stiffened. But once the initial shock passed, I relaxed into her embrace. Feeling my heartbeat accelerate, I moved back before it became too obvious that her touch had wreaked havoc on me.

  I nodded and didn’t say anything else, heading to my apartment in a brain fog.

  CHAPTER 8

  Carys

  DID YOU LOOK IN MY BOX?

  A few days went by before I heard from Deacon again. I’d had this funny feeling he was keeping his distance because things had teetered on crossing the line during our dinner—not necessarily on a physical level, but certainly on an emotional one. Sharing that video of my Swan Lake performance was like taking the Band-Aid off a wound that hadn’t quite healed yet. But somehow, after letting it air out, I didn’t feel like I needed the Band-Aid anymore. Reliving my past, even for that brief moment, had been therapeutic. And my confidence in doing so had everything to do with Deacon first opening up to me.

  The story he’d told me about his past made me feel less alone. I’d never imagined my happy-go-lucky neighbor was hiding something so painful.

  I got a text from him on Monday afternoon while Sunny was napping.

  Deacon: Hey… I got a package that was meant for you. Delivery guy got the apartments mixed up. I ripped it open before I realized it didn’t have my name on it. Want me to leave it outside your door?

  It seemed strange that he wanted to leave it outside rather than just come over with it—further evidence that he was avoiding me. That bummed me out.

  Carys: Yeah. Sure. Thanks.

  I couldn’t remember what the hell I’d ordered. Lately, I’d been up late at night one-clicking all kinds of crap I didn’t need. I bought pretty much everything online, because it was easier for me, so this could have been anything from baby food to shampoo and tampons.

  A few minutes passed before I opened my door to find a medium-sized box on the ground. The top had been ripped open. I brought it into the apartment and looked inside.

  A package of pacifiers.

  Banana chips.

  Black licorice bites.

  Diaper cream.

  A Woman’s Guide to Self-Pleasure.

  I paused.

  A Woman’s Guide to Self-Pleasure.

  My stomach sank.

  Oh. No.

  Now I knew exactly why he’d chosen not to knock on the door.

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the day stewing over what Deacon might have been thinking about me ordering that book. I didn’t know why it bothered me so much. Did it make me seem lonely or desperate? Or was it just the sheer embarrassment of needing a how-to guide on touching myself in the first place. The book had seemed like a good idea the other night at 2AM. Now? Not so much.

  I wished I could just not mention it. But I knew myself. The next time I saw Deacon, my preoccupation would be written all over my face. I’d act all awkward. Eventually, I’d stammer my feelings out in a less-than-articulate attempt to explain myself.

  It was better to acknowledge it calmly and get the awkwardness over with now. Grabbing my phone on the nightstand, I scrolled down to Deacon’s name and typed.

  Carys: Hey.

  He responded almost immediately.

  Deacon: Hey. Everything okay? You don’t normally text at this hour.

  Carys: Everything’s fine. Are you out?

  Deacon: I’m in bed, actually.

  Carys: Did I wake you?

  Deacon: No. I was watching some documentary. What’s up?

  My fingers lingered over the keys before I mustered the courage to type.

  Carys: Did you look in my box?

  Ew. That didn’t come out right. Or maybe that was the perfect lead-in to this awkward-as-fuck conversation.

  Of course, he picked up on it.

  Deacon: Huh? LOL

  Thanks for letting it slide, Deacon. I rephrased.

  Carys: I assume you saw what was in the box you dropped off earlier?

  My pulse raced as the little dots floated around.

  D
eacon: Yeah, and I have to say, I’m pretty surprised.

  My heart hammered against my chest. But before I could reply, he sent another text.

  Deacon: I didn’t take you for a black licorice person. Worst candy ever.

  Oh my God.

  Carys: Nice try pretending you didn’t see the book.

  I shut my eyes tightly and cringed.

  Deacon: What book? ;-)

  Carys: The winky face gave you away. You know what book.

  Deacon: I had no plans to mention it. It’s none of my business.

  Carys: I wanted to acknowledge it before you did. I’m a bit embarrassed.

  Deacon: I wouldn’t have acknowledged it. And if I did, I certainly would never shame you for reading about something that’s natural. Not only would that be wrong, it would be hypocritical.

  Carys: Hypocritical…because you have a similar book? LOL

  Deacon: No. Because self-pleasure is one of my pastimes. I’m pretty damn good at it.

  Carys: I take it you don’t need a book then.

  Deacon: I could WRITE the fucking book.

  Well, then…

  Carys: I know I don’t have anything to be embarrassed about, but I still feel weird that you saw it.

  Deacon: Why?

  Carys: Because it makes it seem like I don’t know my way around my own vagina! I’m not totally clueless. I just figured, you know, since it’s just me…I need ways to be motivated. Thought I’d check it out. See what it has to say. It sounded like a good idea at 2AM.

  Deacon: Have you read any of it yet?

  Carys: No.

  Deacon: I thumbed through it.

  Shit. This is worse than I thought.

  Carys: You did?

  Deacon: Yeah. And I don’t think it’s what you need.

  Carys: Meaning?

  Deacon: You really want to talk about this?

  Carys: Aren’t we already?

  Deacon: Okay. Just wanted to make sure, because you seemed embarrassed a minute ago.

  Carys: I’m over it now. What did you read?

  Deacon: That shit’s too clinical. The steps she goes through…there’s too much choreography. Honestly, I was bored when I should have been turned on. Worrying about where the fuck you put your hand is not going to help you get off.

  Carys: Yeah. That doesn’t sound like something I have time for.

  Deacon: Pretty sure what you need is to relax with a good fucking glass of wine and some hot porn. The book you bought will have you thinking too much. What you need is to NOT think. Getting off is not so much about technique. It’s about losing yourself until you can’t help but touch yourself. When that happens, you don’t give a fuck how you’re doing it.

  It suddenly got really hot in my room. My nipples hardened as I reread that last message a few times.

  Deacon: That’s just my two cents.

  Carys: Is that what you do when you’re alone? Have a glass of wine and watch porn?

  Deacon: Occasionally.

  Carys: Do you always need porn to get off?

  Deacon: No. It’s a mood thing. Sometimes I don’t need it at all.

  Carys: Like when?

  Deacon: When I’m turned on by someone or something that happened. Or sometimes, I’m just turned on for no reason. If I’m stressed, I might need more assistance.

  Carys: I see.

  If he only knew how aroused this conversation had made me. Until this very moment, I don’t think I’d realized just how hard up I’d been. The muscles between my legs ached. That was ironic, because it proved his argument. If you were turned on enough, the mechanics didn’t matter. I knew if I touched myself right now, I could make myself come—all because of this conversation and the fact that I was now imagining what Deacon looked like when he pleasured himself.

  There was so much more I wanted to know: what exactly turned him on, who had turned him on last, what he thought about in those moments when he made himself come all alone. I didn’t need a freaking book. I needed more of this—but I wouldn’t dare ask for it.

  Instead, I chickened out before I made a total fool of myself.

  Carys: Headed to bed. Thanks for the chat.

  The three dots moved around for a lot longer than usual.

  Deacon: Sweet dreams.

  * * *

  A couple days later, a box arrived at my apartment. Given my penchant for online spending lately, I once again had no clue what it might contain.

  When I opened it and reached inside, I wasn’t even sure what I was holding. It looked to be a pair of men’s leather pants with the ass part cut out.

  What the hell?

  Then I noticed the name on the billing receipt. Deacon’s. Although the address was mine.

  Even more confused, I took out my phone. I couldn’t even type the question without laughing.

  Carys: Did you order assless chaps and have them sent to my apartment?

  Deacon: Wow. They came fast.

  Carys: So this isn’t a mistake? Do I want to know what you’ll be doing with these?

  Deacon: They’re a gag gift for my buddy, Adrian. He and I are always sending each other weird shit as practical jokes. He was complaining that he had nothing to wear for this costume party he’s going to. So, voila.

  Carys: And you thought to send them to ME because???

  Deacon: Just wanted to see your reaction. Plus, I figured this would make us even. You accidentally sent a masturbation book my way. And now I sent you assless chaps.

  Carys: That was so thoughtful of you.

  Deacon: Thank you. Just trying to be a good friend. ;-)

  Then came the worst thing that could have possibly happened. I meant to send the laughter emoji. Instead, my finger hit…the tongue.

  Ugh! It was at the top of my choices, since I responded to Simone earlier after she sent me a photo of her dessert. I just sent the tongue in response to assless chaps.

  Deacon: Okay???

  Carys: Sorry! Wrong emoji! My finger slipped. It was supposed to be a laughing face.

  Deacon: So you’re not an ass licker then.

  My jaw dropped.

  Deacon: Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

  I was mortified.

  Deacon: Too much?

  Carys: YES. Just a tad, TMI King.

  Deacon sent a zipper-mouth emoji.

  I threw the phone across the couch, still embarrassed—but laughing.

  CHAPTER 9

  Carys

  WE’RE JUST FRIENDS

  Fall flew by, and before I knew it, winter was upon us in New York. I couldn’t believe I now had a nine-month-old. Over the past couple of months, my friendship with Deacon had grown stronger, but it was still just that—a friendship and nothing more.

  He’d chosen not to go home to Minnesota for Christmas, instead going to Vail on a ski trip with friends from New York. While he was away, my mother came for a two-day visit from Florida. And that was enough. By the end of her stay, I’d had enough of her criticisms about my parenting and ignorant questions about Sunny. I loved my mother but could only take so much of her.

  Now it was January, and I looked forward to what the new year would bring. My job was going well, and Cynthia had given me more responsibilities.

  Since I was working in the office today, Simone and I met for a quick lunch. We hadn’t gotten together in a long time, so we had a lot to catch up on. I’d only now told her about the day Deacon had to watch Sunny—the day he’d saved my ass.

  Simone dabbed her pizza with a napkin to soak up the grease. “I can’t believe he watched her for the whole day. What a trouper.”

  “Yeah. It was pretty amazing.”

  She squinted and examined my face. “You like him…”

  “No.” I shook my head and lied, “Not that way.”

  Says the girl who still masturbates to the transcript of our text chain about masturbation two months later.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s a friend. It’s not l
ike that with us.” I took a bite of my pizza.

  “Are you just telling yourself that?”

  Speaking with my mouth full, I said, “Unfortunately, no. Deacon has had plenty of opportunities to make a move. He’s not interested in me romantically.”

  “But you like him, and you’d want him to be your boyfriend if you thought he was interested, right?”

  Feeling hot all of a sudden, I snorted, “Boyfriend? Deacon? Deacon is the anti-boyfriend.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he’s the opposite of someone who would be settling down any time soon—if ever. He loves the single life too much.”

  Simone glared at me, seeming to see through my defensive attempt to hide my feelings. Still, I wouldn’t admit that my hopes had been dashed too many times already.