by Helen Hoang
She pulled a chair out for him and rubbed her elbow awkwardly. “Not really.”
Instead of sitting down, he strode into the adjoining kitchen with his hands in his pockets, inspecting the gas range, the stainless-steel refrigerating units, and whatever else she had in the echoing space. Cold, gray, and cavernous, the kitchen was her least favorite room in her house. At least, it usually was.
It became a different place with Michael in it. The ambience turned intimate and inviting, and the low-hanging lights twinkled more like stars than energy-efficient LEDs. It no longer felt lonely.
“What does ‘not really’ mean? A month ago? Two?” He aimed a teasing grin at her as he asked, “A year?”
“Five years.”
His face went slack, and he stared at her house with new eyes. “So you like it empty like this?”
She shrugged. “I’m at the office most of the time, so it doesn’t bother me. Here, I have a bed, a nice TV, and really fast Internet.”
He shook his head and chuckled. “The essentials.”
“Is that too strange?” Like being a late talker or getting overstimulated at clubs?
“No, I think I like it,” he said with a smile. “You could use some art, though, and a couch or two. Maybe a coffee table. You don’t need much more than that.”
A knot formed in her throat. At that precise moment in time, when she had him standing in her kitchen, in her house, she felt like she didn’t need anything else in the whole world. And their time together was ending soon.
She wasn’t ready for that to happen.
“Would you mind sitting so we can talk?” she asked.
With a serious nod, he rounded the oversized center island and sat in the chair she’d pulled out. His proximity drew her like a magnet, and she seated herself before she could do something distracting like touch him. She needed to stay focused. Maybe if she spoke very eloquently, he’d agree to her new plan.
She rested jittery hands on the tabletop, and within seconds, her fingers started tapping.
A warm hand slid over hers and squeezed. “You never need to be nervous with me. You know that, right?”
When he didn’t remove his hand, she analyzed the way he made her feel. This was a casual, uninvited touch, the kind that normally made her want to crawl into herself. But all she registered right now was Michael’s warmth and the roughness of his skin, his weight. She didn’t understand it, but her body accepted him. Only him.
The realization made her mind sharpen with determination, and she gathered her courage and plowed ahead. “I’m issuing you a new proposal.”
He tilted his head in a measured way. “You mean you want to extend our lessons beyond next Friday?”
“I mean I don’t want lessons anymore. Our time together tonight—both the good parts and the . . . not-so-good parts—made me realize a few things. While I’m bad at sex, I’m even worse at relationships. I think I’m better off spending my time working on that. Before today, I never shared ice cream with someone or held hands while I walked down a sidewalk. I never had a dinner conversation that wasn’t filled with long stretches of painful silence or those embarrassing moments when I accidentally offend people and drive them away.”
He ran his thumb over her knuckles before he considered her with an unwavering gaze. “I didn’t see any relationship problems—except for when you tried to abandon me, but if I’d actually been kissing her, I would have deserved it. You did fine tonight.”
“That’s because I was with you.”
He thought that over for a pensive moment. “Maybe it’s because you feel like you’re in control when you’re with me. Because you’re paying me, there’s less pressure, and you can relax.”
“That’s not it at all. I relax with you because of the way you treat me, because you’re you,” she said with certainty.
His eyebrows drew together, and he went still for several breaths. “Stella, you shouldn’t tell me things like that.”
“Why? It’s true.”
Emotions crossed his face faster than she could read them. He shook his head, swallowed. A smile hinted at the edge of his lips before he withdrew his hand from hers to rub his jaw. He cleared his throat, but his voice still came out rough when he said, “Tell me about this new proposal.”
She stared down at the back of her hand, missing the warmth of his touch. “I want you to teach me how to be in a relationship. Not the sex part, but the together part. Like tonight. The talking and the sharing and the holding hands. New things are scary for me, but with you, I can handle them and even enjoy them. I want to hire you to be my full-time practice boyfriend.”
His lips parted, but he didn’t speak for the longest time. “What do you mean, ‘not the sex part’?”
“I want to take the sex out. I don’t want to be like that woman at the club and force you to be intimate with me. My hope is that if I get good enough at the together part of a relationship, a man won’t mind working on the sex part with me.”
“Who said anything about forcing?” he asked with narrowed eyes. “Everything I’ve done with you up to now has been voluntary.”
She suppressed a grimace and laced her fingers together so she couldn’t tap them. “The next time a man kisses me, I need him to do it because he wants to.” Without a monetary incentive. After seeing Michael with his ex-client, everything they’d done thus far left an unsavory taste in her mouth. Her reasoning when hiring an escort to teach her sex had been oversimplified. “I know you weren’t initially interested in doing repeat sessions, and my new proposal would require even more face time. Because of that, I’m willing to pay you fifty thousand dollars up front for the first month. Maybe we could try this for three to six months—at the same rate? Is that a good time frame for a practice relationship? Everything is negotiable, of course. I don’t know what the industry standard is for this type of arrangement.”
“Fifty thousand . . .” He shook his head like he was questioning his hearing. “Stella, I can’t—”
“Before you say no, think about it,” she said as her heart rate jumped. “Please.”
He pushed away from the table and got to his feet. “I need some time.”
“Of course.” She stood up and held her breath, nervous, unsure what to do. “As much as you need.”
Wrapping a hand around her upper arm, he took a half step toward her. He leaned down a few inches before he caught himself. Eyes intent on her mouth, he outlined the edges of her lips with his fingertips, sending shivers of awareness outward. “I’ll tell you by next Friday. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine.”
He bit his teeth into his bottom lip like he was thinking about kissing her, and her own lips tingled in response. “Good night, then, Stella.”
“Good night, Michael.”
In a state of breathless numbness, she watched as he let himself out.
{ CHAP+ER }
12
Jab, jab, cross. Jab, jab, cross. Cross. Cross. Cross.
Sweat trickled into Michael’s eyes, burning him, and he swiped a forearm over his face before slamming a fist into the punching bag again. Whenever thoughts crept back into his head, he hit harder. Too many fucking thoughts, too many fucking feelings.
Jab, dodge, hook. Jab, cross.
His arms burned, and he welcomed the pain, welcomed the way it seared everything out of his brain. There was nothing but the hard resistance of the sand in the bag and the jolting impact that shocked up his arm and down his leg.
Jab, jab, jab, cross, cross, cross. Harder. Could he punch the bag straight off its chains? Maybe. Cross, cross, cross, cross—
Loud knocks distracted him midpunch, and he glared at the front door. His annoyance quickly morphed into worry. Shit, was it the landlord?
Throwing a towel around his neck, he went to open the door.
“’Sup
, cuz.” Quan brushed past him, set a six-pack of beer bottles on the coffee table, and tossed his motorcycle jacket on the couch. Without pausing to look at Michael, he strode into the kitchen and began digging through the fridge. “Got anything to eat?”
“You’re the one who works at a restaurant,” Michael said on his way back to his punching bag.
It still swung side to side from the pummeling he’d given it, and he steadied it before he drove a fist into the faded leather. As he got back into beating the shit out of the bag, he heard a series of beeps followed by the whirring of the microwave.
“I’m eating your leftovers,” Quan called out.
Michael ignored him and continued punching.
The microwave beeped, and shortly afterward, Quan carried a steaming bowl to the couch, sat, and proceeded to eat Michael’s dinner. Very noisily.
When Michael couldn’t take the slurping sounds any longer, he paused in his punching and said, “Most people eat at the kitchen table.”
Quan shrugged. “I like the couch better.” He shoved a forkful of noodles into his mouth and slurp-chewed, arching his eyebrows at Michael in a what gives? way.
Michael gritted his teeth and tried to find his rhythm again.
“You been hitting the weights hard lately? Your arms are bigger. They’re like grapefruits, man.”
Steadying the bag, Michael asked, “Why are you here?”
“You gonna apologize to me or what? Because you’re the shittiest cousin ever, Michael. You really are.”
He shut his eyes, exhaling. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna have to ask you to try that again.”
He pushed away from the bag and threw himself onto the couch next to his cousin. “I’m really sorry. It’s just complicated right now, and I—” He rested his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his wrapped hands. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t get why you lied about not having a girlfriend. ‘No one special’ my ass. You scared she won’t like the family or what?” Quan asked with a sneer.
Michael resisted the urge to tear his hair out. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“The fuck, Michael.” Quan set his bowl on the coffee table next to the beer and grabbed his jacket. “I’ll leave, then.” He stalked to the door and grabbed the knob.
“Today was crappy, okay?” He began yanking the boxing wraps from his fists. “All my days are crap days, but today was worse. I thought my mom was dead. When I got there, she was stooped over in her chair, and it didn’t look like she was breathing. I lost my shit.”
Quan turned around, worry lining his face. “Is she okay? Why didn’t I hear about this earlier? Was it like the other two times when you found her in the bathroom? Is she in the hospital right now?”
One of the wraps came off, and Michael switched to his other hand, reliving the fear and the relief and the embarrassment. “She’s fine. She just fell asleep. When I went crazy, she woke up and yelled at me.”
Quan’s expression went from relieved to amused. “You’re such a momma’s boy, you know that?”
“Like you aren’t.”
“You should tell my mom that. Maybe she’ll stop being so mean.”
Michael rolled his eyes as he coiled his boxing wraps back up. “After that, someone came looking for my dad. They were trying to serve him. Not sure if it was the same person from before, or the IRS, or someone new. It’s always fun seeing people’s faces when I tell them yeah, I’m his son. I can see them sizing me up and making assumptions. And then when I tell them I have no idea where my dad is or if he’s even alive, I get the doubt or the pity. My mom spent the rest of the day repeating old stories about how fucked up he is.”
“You’re the only one she tells, you know. She won’t even talk to my mom about that stuff, and they’re like this.” Quan crossed two fingers. “You just gotta let her do it.”
“Yeah, I know.” He understood it was good for his mom to talk about it, and most times, he handled it pretty well. But lately, it had gotten harder for him. Because he was a selfish asshole.
Like father, like son.
He was tempted to take Stella up on her offer even though his gut told him he should say no. She would be better off spending her time with tech moguls and Nobel laureates—people who were actually good matches for her and could afford to be with her even when she wasn’t paying them.
Not like Michael. He would give almost anything to take the money out of their equation, but the bills didn’t stop, so he couldn’t, either.
“You want me to go, or you want me to stay?” Quan asked from where he stood in front of the door.
Michael took two beers out of the cardboard container, popped the top off one using the other, and set the open bottle on the coffee table. “Stay.”
Quan snatched the bottle on his way over and sat down next to Michael on the couch. After taking a deep swallow, he traded the beer for the noodles and took up where he’d left off, only not as loud now.
Michael popped the top off his own bottle with the edge of the table, turned on the TV, and drank as he absently flipped through the channels.
“So, about your girl . . .” Quan said. “How long you been seeing her?”
Michael took a long drag from his bottle. He needed to be buzzed if he was going to talk about this. “Stella’s not really ‘my girl.’ It’s only been a few weeks.”
“Whatever, man, you’ve got serious pussy mojo. If you want a girl, she’s yours.”
Michael snorted and drank more. “I don’t want a girl who likes me just because I fuck her right.”
He wanted a girl who liked him for him.
“You’re so full of shit.” Quan swapped his empty bowl for his beer and took a swig. “She almost cried when that blonde plastered herself to your face. She’s into you.”
Michael’s heart threatened all sorts of dramatic gymnastics at his cousin’s words, and he gave himself a stern mental shake as he stared into his beer bottle. It probably wasn’t what he thought. He shouldn’t jump to conclusions. “That’s cool.”
“That’s cool?” Quan arched an eyebrow. “You’re not in seventh grade anymore. You should be like, that’s awesome, man, thanks for telling me, I can’t see from inside my ass. Do you need sex advice? Because I know shit.”
Michael couldn’t stop the laughter from cracking out of his lungs. “No, I’m good on the sex advice. Thanks. But if you ever need some tips . . .”
Quan fingered the raised letters on the side of his beer bottle like he had something to say but was trying to figure out how. Pinning Michael with a weighted gaze, he finally asked, “Have you ever thought she’s kinda like Khai?”
Michael smiled slightly. “Yeah, just a little, though.” Stella was on the socially awkward side like Khai, but she was far more expressive and sensitive. “Why do you ask?”
Quan arched his eyebrows and drank his beer. “No reason.” After a moment of consideration, he pointed his bottle at Michael. “So have you two . . . you know?”
Michael took a long drag of beer. “Nope.”
“Really?” Quan grimaced. “Is she a virgin? Shit, is she saving it for marriage? Run like my mom is after you.”
Michael shrugged. “She needs me to go slow. I don’t mind. I kinda like it.” Every new response he earned from Stella felt special, just like in the old eBay commercials. It’s better when you win it. Maybe because it had always been so easy for him before.
“Fucking liar. You’re probably jacking off ten times a day.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t jacking off.”
Quan shot forward to the front of the couch. “Oh fuck, am I sitting on your come cushions?”
“Do you really wanna know?” Michael asked with a smirk.
“You’re disgusting. You know that?” Quan got up and sat on the coffee table, brus
hing at himself like he’d been contaminated.
Michael laughed, and the two of them spent a moment contemplating their beers.
When he couldn’t hold back any longer, Michael asked, “What did you think of Stella? Did you like her?” He braced himself for the answer, realizing he cared about his cousin’s opinion.
How stupid was that? Even if he did accept Stella’s proposal, he’d only be her practice boyfriend. Their practice relationship would end as soon as she gained the confidence to enter a real relationship with someone better.
“Yeah, she’s cute, a lot sweeter than the girls you used to go for. Your mom is going to go nuts over her.”
Michael downed the rest of his beer. Not fucking likely. They’d have to meet first, and he couldn’t see that happening.
“What’s her last name? Stella what?” Quan asked as he pulled out his phone.
“Why?”
“I wanna see if she has a LinkedIn profile. I do this with every guy my sister dates. Aren’t you curious?”
Yeah, he was curious. “Lane, Stella Lane.”
* * *
• • •
A persistent buzzing dragged Stella out of yet another heated Michael dream. For this entire past week, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him.
At work, she tried to focus on her data, but the words and numbers turned into body parts that fit together in fascinating ways. She fantasized about his hands, his mouth, his smile, his eyes, his words, his laugh, his presence.
When she slept, dreams of Michael plagued her, so intense the craving of her body woke her at odd hours of the night.
Last Friday had tipped her over the line. There was no doubt about it.
Stella was officially obsessed with Michael.
And they might never see each other again. It was Friday now, and he still hadn’t texted or called. Was this one of those situations where no news meant no? Her heart sank, and her limbs went heavy with sadness.
The infernal buzzing continued, distracting her. She groped at the nightstand until she located her phone. Squinting at the screen, she saw it was her housekeeper.