by Sarina Bowen
By the time I’m finished a few minutes later, the red pen and the violet one are 69ing on her desk blotter while the orange and the green pen do it doggy style. They’re leaning against her stapler for leverage. It’s technically tricky to pull off wall sex between the blue and indigo pens, but with the help of some poster putty, I make it happen.
That leaves only the poor lonely yellow pen. So sad. Poor yellow. I’m thinking hard about how to make a pen masturbate when Ash’s line rings.
Because I’m feel frisky, I answer it in a faux British accent. “Hello, chap. You’ve reached Ash Power’s line at Ernst VanderMollen Realty. Can I be of service?”
There’s a pause, and I wonder if I’m about to be asked to donate to a worthy cause. But then a gruff male voice demands, “I need to speak to Ash. Put ’er on, please.”
“So sorry, mate! She’s popped out to the chippy for a bit of a munch.”
“What?” He huffs into the phone, and suddenly there’s a hurricane in my ear. “Never mind. When’ll she be back?”
“Soon!” I lie. “Shall I jot down a message? Do you fancy a showing? Which listing?” My accent has taken on a decidedly more cockney sound every time I open my mouth. But something about this caller rubs me the wrong way, and so I want to keep him talking.
“The condo,” he says quickly. “I’m calling about the condo.”
“Crikey!” But now my Spidey senses are tingling, because I don’t think Ash has a listing for a condo. “Would you mean the one on Fallen Fanny Road?” I don’t know where my brain gets these things. Maybe it’s the stress talking. Or the egg white omelet.
“I think that’s the one. Eh, I can’t remember the name of it.” He clears his throat. “But I definitely want to see it. Here’s my number.”
Huh. That’s a good dodge. This guy is slick. My Spidey senses are still firing. There’s an age-old saying: You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. And I’m a bullshitter. Pro level. I don’t believe this guy is a client at all, but he already called my bluff.
Hmm.
I jot down his digits and then get rid of him. Whoever he is, he’s up to no good, and he’s killed all inspiration I had for sexing up Ash’s office supplies.
I just miss Ash. I want to see her and make her look at me again like she did on Canadian Thanksgiving at her parents’.
So where the fuck is she?
10 Cream Puffs and Crises
Ash
After Braht drops me off on Tuesday, I make it two whole days without thinking about him at all. Nope. Not even a little bit.
Okay, that’s a total lie. But my intentions are pure.
Our shared office is now problematic, so I vow to avoid thinking about him. Or his lips on my neck. Or his real name on my lips. Nope. I will not look at Braht. I will not look at Braht or imagine him in my bed, all buff and flecked with starlight. I will not imagine lowering myself onto his glorious dick, or ever, ever admit that he has a glorious dick.
And because I can’t trust myself to do any of these things, I decide to take my business outside the office today. Again.
The truth is, there’s another reason I’m avoiding the office. I’m freaked out about that phone message Braht left me the last time I saw him.
That call was from Dwight. I’m ninety percent sure.
Luckily I can afford a day off. We just finished the paperwork for Tom’s house, so my bank account loves me. The mystery writer lady is now happily surrounded by pictures of Braht in the buff. She actually put that in the contract—that she got to keep the art in the dining room. …And now I’m back to thinking about him naked.
Fuck.
In a last-ditch effort for sanity, I text my besties. Need help. Need a drink. But it’s not even 11am.
Sadie immediately responds with: I need help, too. There’s something I need to tell you both. Does drinking count if we also have brunch together?
I swear I’ve seen signs that state “It’s not day drinking if it’s brunch.” So I text, naturally: BRYNN WE NEED BRUNCH.
Brynn responds: I’ve already got the bacon in the oven. This sounds serious. I’ll whip up some cream puffs and mimosas.
I am out the door as soon as I see the word “bacon.”
I hightail it to Brynn’s. She and Tom are staying in her newly remodeled Victorian home in Heritage Hill. They’re here during the week (mostly) and at their swanky cottage on Lake Michigan on the weekends, or when they’re filming one of Brynn’s cooking shows. And I’m back to remembering that first show where Braht and I were in the pantry, all over each other with lips and tongues and GET OUT OF MY BRAIN, BRAHT.
It must be all the stress. That letter about Dwight’s release, coupled with my, uhm, coupling with Braht, makes me miss a stop sign or three, so I’m doubly surprised when I get to Brynn’s and see that Sadie is already here. I’m also surprised she’s twin-less. She hardly ever leaves Kate and Amy. Usually they’re attached to her boobs. Then again, maybe that was a while ago. I don’t understand the teat needs of toddlers.
I pull in behind her and there’s another thing that surprises me: Sadie doesn’t look right. She’s rumpled. She’s wearing yoga pants. Sadie never wears stretchy clothing. And she’s crying so hard that mascara has made two tracks down her face.
Suddenly I’m not really thinking about myself anymore. I’m worried about Sadie. And I’m betting it was her douchebag husband who did this to her.
Men! I will have his balls in a vise grip by sunset.
Sadie looks at me, stumbles and just says “Alcohol”.
I haul her inside.
The house smells like sugar bacon. Brynn opens the door and says, “Holy shit.” Then we, admittedly somewhat dramatically, drag Sadie over to the couch and sprawl her out.
“What on earth?” Brynn says while I gasp, “Are the kids okay?”
Sadie just nods and then squeezes her eyes shut tightly. One tear escapes anyway.
I look at Brynn and give her a look that I hope says, “Do something!” and not, “I’m constipated.” She nods and I hear her run into the kitchen. I look for something maternal to do, so I awkwardly pat Sadie’s shoulder. Don’t judge! I don’t know what to do in situations like this. I can arm wrestle someone into submission, but comfort them? Unless it involves poking them with a stick, I’m not up for that.
Brynn knows, though. She returns with a beautifully cooked, crisp piece of bacon in her hand that she begins to float under Sadie’s nose. I flap my hands to help the scent waft. Waft, bacon, waft!
One of Sadie’s eyes opens and then she pounces and that bacon is gone. It’s a little scary. It’s like her mouth is a bear trap or something.
We all breathe deeply. If Sadie went for the bacon then everything will be fine. It’s our version of checking if someone has had a stroke.
Sadie hasn’t. And neither have I.
The atmosphere is really weird in here and I’m waiting for Sadie to talk. She looks at me like I should do the talking instead, but now I feel like I’m over-imagining the threat of this letter that’s burning in my pocket. I look to Brynn because I want to make a full circle of things. There’s silence for a beat or two.
Sadie says: “Mike is having an affair.”
I say: “Dwight is out of prison.”
Brynn says: “I’m pregnant.”
And then we just blink at each other.
“Cream puff?” Brynn asks.
It takes us a minute to process all the information swirling around us. I mean, how do you respond to that? Boo? Yay? Booyay? So we don’t say anything for a minute.
Sadie lifts a hand and Brynn and I haul her to her feet. We schlep to the kitchen where Brynn plates bacon, cream puffs, and pouring mimosas for us. For her, she just has the orange juice. That would have been a sure giveaway if we’d started brunch without hearing her news.
Then we smack and drink and sigh and someone giggles. Maybe even me. I mean life is never dull is it? Then I just can’t stand it anymore. “Are you sure Mike is
having an affair and are you sure you’re pregnant? I mean, I got certified mail about my woes. Show me some proof, honeys.”
Brynn rolls her eyes. “I have six pregnancy tests in the bathroom with all the lines in the world and Tom is at the cottage chopping down a tree because he wants to build a crib from scratch. I didn’t bother to tell him we’ve got plenty of time for that. He just needs to put his hands to work. And we can circle back to all this later, but you two…talk already.”
“I have proof,” Sadie grumbles. “I mean, it’s true. And I will get proof before I confront him. But I don’t even want to talk about it right now. If I’m putting everything into perspective, I’m fine and the girls are fine.”
“Where are Kate and Amy, anyway?” I ask.
“With my sister. I told her I needed her and she flew in from Atlanta.”
“Oh, right. That’s nice.” Why don’t I have a sister who can fly in from Atlanta? That would be really terrific right about now.
Sadie must sense my fear because she turns to me and grabs my hands and looks me in the eyes. “Are. You. Okay?” she asks, and she means it, even though her own life is coming apart at the seams.
I get a little teary myself and I nod. I squeeze her hands and let go. I love these two women with all of my being, but I can’t touch them or be hugged right now because I’d probably spontaneously combust. I just need to take a breath and present the facts.
“Dwight was released last week. And I’ve gotten two hang-ups on my cell phone. Sometimes I get the sense that someone’s watching me, but it usually just turns out to be Braht. I mean, he pops up everywhere.”
“You should give Braht a collar with a bell,” Brynn says. And now I’m imagining him decked out in leathers, wearing a studded collar and crawling on his hands and knees to me. “Yes, mistress!” the fantasy Braht says. “Hmm. A bell?”
“You know, like a cat.” Brynn explains.
Ah. Okay. Naturally my mind went straight to the BDSM scene.
“Seriously though,” Sadie says. “If you’re getting tingling nerves, pay attention to that. That’s coming from your gut. And what science is learning now about gut fauna is that it’s so complex that the gut might actually be a second brain.”
To which I reply, “Ew.” Because ew.
“Ignore it at your peril,” Sadie says, and there’s a little more oomph behind her eyes. She’s a natural therapist. She delights in helping people. Someone needs to give her an award and a pair of wings. “So listen to your gut and pull back on the gluten.”
“Cream puffs don’t have gluten,” Brynn says. “They’re made of magic.”
“Seriously, though, do you think he’ll come after you? What could he want?”
“Revenge?” Duh. “I testified against him. And then I got an annulment. He screamed BITCH on his way out of the courtroom.”
“He can’t get to you. No way,” says Brynn all fierce like. “Because we are here to protect you. You can stay here and Tom and I…” Brynn looks a little green and she suddenly takes off and runs to the bathroom. We hear the door slam and immediate retching.
“She really is pregnant,” I breathe. It’s hard to believe but at the same time perfectly right. It’s like my friends are growing up without me.
“I don’t want to ever go through that again,” Sadie says.
“The retching? Or pregnancy?”
“All of it.” She says, again in an unlike-Sadie way. She’s usually the perfect Earth Mother and very connected to the universe.
“Are you okay? Are you sure he’s cheating?” I try to say the word “cheating” tenderly, but it’s such an ugly word that it’s hard to make it hurt less.
“I will be okay, once I figure out what to do. Ever since the twins were born, he’s not the same. He comments on my sagging breasts and the baby weight I never lost. When I’d nurse the twins, I actually saw him grimace. He told me…” She stops.
“Breathe,” I say. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
Her eyes turn red. “He said at first he was just giving me time to heal and be a mom. And later he said it was hard to…get turned on…by someone who was essentially a…dairy cow.”
I’m stunned into silence.
We hear the water running and Sadie quickly says “Don’t say anything to Brynn. I’m sure Tom will be different. Some men can’t handle being fathers. Some men just want to be boys.”
Brynn returns looking a little better. When she enters we both say “Congratulations!” and she laughs. “I’m pretty sure pregnancy is going to suck,” Brynn says.
She looks to Sadie, who says, “It will be beautiful,” and I can’t tell if she’s lying to reassure Brynn or telling the truth.
“Where were we?” Brynn says. “Oh, that’s right. Dwight, the maniac, is out of jail and you’re getting calls, and you think he may be coming after you.”
“I don’t know. I’m probably just imagining things.”
“And if you’re not? If your gut fauna brain, or whatever Sadie called it, is right?”
I think for a moment. More than anything, I don’t want to be alone right now. But Brynn and Sadie both have their hands full. Really full.
If I call my parents and tell them I’m spooked, they’ll make me move back in with them. That won’t do at all. After my annulment and losing my job, I ended up in my childhood bedroom, right there on the My Little Pony comforter, hating my life. It was a low point I don’t wish to revisit.
“I just want to keep moving forward,” I announce. “I’m going to be strong.”
“You have friends,” Brynn says softly. “We’re here for you.”
“I really appreciate that,” I say quickly.
“If you need a night away from it all, come stay with Tom and me,” Brynn offers.
“I’ll do that,” I lie. I don’t think I can take the two of them together right now. I’m happy that Brynn has found a man who loves her so much he gives her beard rash every time he walks into the room. With her pregnant, they must be unstoppable right now. Like a 24/7 sexfest.
Sadie pats my arm. “I’m here for you, too.”
Of course she is—in between negotiating the probable end of her marriage and raising two toddlers.
“So…” Brynn swirls her orange juice around in her glass and then stares me down. “What’s the deal with Braht? He went to your parents’ cottage for Thanksgiving, right?”
“Right.” That feels like a million years ago now.
“And what was that like?” Sadie asks.
“It was, um…” There is curiosity sparkling in their eyes. Both of them. Fucking girlfriends. “Okay, fine. It was orgasmic.”
Sadie squeals and Brynn burps. But it’s a happy, pregnant burp.
“Don’t get excited, okay? That was just a one-time thing.”
“You mean a two-time thing?” Brynn giggles. “Let’s not forget the Hanky Panky Pantry.”
“Shut up.”
“Are you going to see him again?” Sadie asks.
“No!” I insist. Except that not seeing him is a big chore, since our desks align at work. Suddenly all my office supplies have developed a sex addiction. This morning I found my stapler and my tape dispenser in a compromising position. “I have a lot on my mind right now,” I insist. And it’s true.
“Oh, honey,” Sadie says.
“We’re here for you,” Brynn echoes.
“I’m going to be fine,” I say brightly. I put on my game face and smile. “Just fine!”
If only I believed that.
11 The Return Of Magnum P.I.
Braht
All weekend I’m troubled by that phone call I took on Ash’s line. When I gave her that message, she actually turned pale.
But then Ash made herself so scarce for the rest of the week that I wasn’t able to ask her about it. I need to know what’s got Ash’s panties in a twist (besides me). But since I handed over that message slip, I can’t follow up because I didn’t save the number.
Obviously, desperate measures are called for.
There’s this thing that action heroes do in movies when they need information. They take the next sheet in the memo pad and shade over it with a pencil’s lead, revealing whatever was written on the previous page. I mean, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Magnum P.I. do this countless times in re-runs. Or maybe it wasn’t him? I just remember watching that show and thinking that his stache looked like it was eating his face.
Either way, I try this pencil rubbing thing with Ash’s phone memo pad on Monday, and it works perfectly. When I use one of her expertly sharpened pencils to completely shade the page, the previous message is revealed! It reads:
Wine
Dumplings
Ice Cream
Wine
Damn it. Foiled again. And now I want ice cream.
I ponder my next move all morning (though I also show an adorable bungalow on Wilshire, because a man’s gotta eat).
Monday afternoon I get my lucky break. Ash is out of the office again, but when her phone rings, my Spidey senses tingle.
Cockney Braht answers again. “Hello, matey! You’ve reached Ash Power’s line at Ernst VanderMollen Realty. Can I be of service?”
“Ash, please,” a man grumbles, and it’s the same gruff voice. I didn’t know I could hate a guy based on two words and a voice, but there you go.
“Whom shall I say is calling, good sir?”
“It’s, uh, her friend John.”
“You have a surname, John?”
“A what?”
Jesus. “A surname. A lahst name,” I draw out the British pronunciation, just so he feels extra stupid. I suppose you aren’t supposed to alienate the target of your investigation, but I can’t help myself. Good thing the CIA never offered me a job.
“John Smith.”