The Awkward Path to Getting Lucky

by Summer Heacock

  I get to my apartment and fling the door open. “While I appreciate your attempt at laying such sophisticated groundwork, you do realize you essentially offered me up as a concubine to Barry, right?”

  The line is silent for a few uncomfortable beats. “Now I do.”

  “There ya go.” I slam my door shut and start stripping off my unfortunately soapy shoes and socks.

  “Hey, Ben isn’t upset, is he?” Joe asks. “I promise I didn’t mean for that to happen. I feel really bad about everything.”

  “Good. You should,” I say with a huff. “And I think he’s okay? If he’s not, I’m turning Shannon loose on you.”

  He groans. “I don’t expect to survive the night as it is, man.”

  “Also good.”

  “I really am sorry. If you need me to explain to him that it was all my fault, I’m on it. Same with Ryan. I’ll gladly call him and explain. I don’t want him pissed at me.”

  I freeze completely still, standing partially stripped and sticky in my living room, and it hits me: I didn’t think about Ryan once during the Goatee fiasco.

  Plus, I haven’t heard from him in nearly three weeks. I don’t think this should be our first topic of conversation.

  “Uh, no,” I mutter, resuming peeling off my soapy gear. “I’ve got it. He’ll understand. It’s fine.”

  “The offers stand,” he maintains. “And I swear you will never hear from Barry again, trust me.”

  “I believe you,” I say. “And, Joe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t ever poke your nose in my love life again unless you get my express written permission beforehand, okay?”

  He sighs. “Got it.”

  “I’ve got to go shower the mop crud off of me,” I say. “I hope Shannon doesn’t kill you too hard. Or maybe I do. Not quite over it yet.”

  “It could go either way. Have a good night, Kat.”

  “Night, Joe.”

  I end the call and get back to pulling my disgustingly damp jeans off.

  Twelve days. Twelve fleeting days between me and my deadline.

  I can do this. Therapy has been going well on my own, even if it has gone unfathomably bad with Ben thus far.

  In all fairness, we haven’t even made it to the actual act of therapy sex yet, so I’ve got hope that we can make it work if I can get past my random bursts of hideous awkwardness leading up to things.

  I need tonight to go well. I need to shatter this deadline into a million little pieces and knock it out of my head. And if things work out the way I hope they will over the next few hours, I could move on from all this nonsense and focus on a million more important things.

  Like my upcoming TV debut. And the Coopertown presentation.

  My last attempts at preparation didn’t go my way, so obviously wine and another spa visit are out.

  What I need to do here is be completely ready by the time Ben makes his way back. All systems go, a paragon of relaxation.

  I look over at my kitchen counter and see the bottle of pills Dr. Snow prescribed me. If I’m anxious, so’s my vagina.

  I run over, now sans pants, and grab the bottle. “Take ½–1 pill as needed for anxiety,” the directions read.

  At this point, I will genuinely take all the help I can get.

  I pop the lid off, throw a whole pill in my mouth and quickly grab a glass of water to wash it down.

  I recap the medicine, set it back on the counter and head to my bedroom. Hopefully the medicine will kick in before I call Ben back, and after I shower, I’ll take extra time to do my own therapy before he gets here. I should be relaxed and ready to go.

  Running to my bathroom, I start the shower and while I wait for the water to heat up, I head back into my room and start pulling items out of my nightstand. I set a bottle of lubricant on the stand and the rest of my therapy items on my comforter. I am nothing if not prepared tonight.

  This is going to work, I can just feel it.

  * * *

  I blink myself awake and feel alarmingly incoherent.

  Squinting into the darkness, I try to gather my thoughts. I sit up, my knees bumping into a variety of faux-penises on my bed. I’m still wearing a bath towel, and my hair feels oddly crumpled.

  The clock on my nightstand, the LED glinting through the bottle of lube, reads 3:07.

  Oh my god. Ohmygodohmygod.

  I had taken my sweet time in the shower, scrubbing up, shaving my legs, determined to take my prep to a hospital-grade level of cleanliness. I started to feel the medicine kicking in, which definitely helped on the relaxation front.

  When I was out of the shower, I meant to lie down and do my therapy before I called Ben. But I was like, really relaxed. Too relaxed.

  Retucking my towel, I fling myself off my bed and regret it immediately. I’m feeling a bit wobbly still.

  I run out to the living room and grab my phone off the edge of the kitchen counter. I push the button and see I’ve got multiple missed texts and two missed calls from Ben.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I don’t even bother to read them before I hit Call Back.

  After five long rings, his sleepy voice answers. “Hello?”

  “Ben,” I groan. “I am so sorry.”

  “Hey, are you okay? What happened?”

  “I fell asleep!” I slap my hand to my forehead. “I took this pill my doctor gave me to help me relax and I passed out right after my shower. Ben, I am so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging.”

  I can hear him rubbing his eyes. “It’s fine,” he says through a yawn. “I was worried about you, though. I didn’t know if you’d panicked or if the Goatee guy came around or something. You’re all right?”

  I scoff, “The Goatee wouldn’t dare come around here. I’m pretty sure Joe had him put down. And yeah, I’m fine. I’m sorry I made you worry.”

  “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  Still clutching my towel, I drag my toe across the carpet. “I’m guessing the plan for tonight is off the table now, right?”

  He chuckles. “Since I have to get up for work in a few hours, I’m going to say it’s probably not the best idea, no.”

  I can feel disappointment manifesting as a pout. “Yeah, no, I totally understand. I really am sorry. About everything today. Erm, yesterday.”

  He yawns again. “Maybe we can talk tomorrow?”

  “Sure. Go back to sleep.”

  “You too,” he says. “G’night, Kat.”

  “Night.”

  My spirits sink as he ends the call. I look down at my phone and see the texts. There are three from Ben, asking if I’m okay and checking in. One from Shannon apologizing again for Joe and Barry.

  And one from Ryan.

  Drove by the shop today, realized I hadn’t said hey in a while, so I figured I should! Hey!

  I blink at the screen.

  That’s it? Three weeks of no talking, and I get a “should” and a “Hey!”?

  Nothing about this evening went well. Not a damn thing.

  And now it’s the middle of the night, I’m starving, no sex was had and my bed is covered in dildos.

  It’s officially a new day. Eleven days left.

  While I was hoping the third time would be the charm, I’m trying really hard to not think about what’s supposed to happen when you’ve gotten three strikes.

  27

  There isn’t enough coffee in the world to handle my mood this morning.

  I slog into the back room, dropping a gym bag under the desk and waving a feeble hello to Butter, who is yawning over at her station.

  “What the hell is that?” she asks, pointing at the bag. “You working out now?”

  “Not exactly,” I say, t
ying my apron on. “How’re you today?”

  She yawns again. “Well, I went home and panicked about all the recipes for the stupid Coopertown thing, so I was up until two in the damn morning testing them all out again. My kitchen looks like the shop dropped by for a booty call.”

  “That’s some disturbing imagery.” I shudder. “Did you make any progress?”

  She deflates a little. “I don’t even know. I feel like I’ve made so many new versions of these cakes, I don’t even know what tastes good anymore. I wrote it all down, so I’ll whip them up for you guys later today.”

  Empathy is pouring out of every part of me. “You’re doing amazing, Butter. Seriously, no one masters cakes like you, baby. I’ve got every confidence in you.”

  She looks down at her station and grabs her glitter brush, rolling it across the flattop. “Do you feel like we will sort of be ruining everyone’s lives if we screw this up? Because I absolutely feel like I’ll be destroying some lives.”

  I walk over and wrap my arms around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze. “You, my dear, will not be screwing up anything for anyone. Seriously. Even on your worst day, your stuff is the best I’ve ever tasted. You’ve got this, Butter.” I step away and give her a little pat on the ass for good measure, which makes her giggle. “But I do feel you on the pressure. I’ll be glad when this is all over.”

  “How about you? You’re looking a little twitchy yourself.”

  “I’m swell,” I lie, picking up today’s invoice list. “Not at all overwhelmed and agitated. Maybe it was Mr. Peterson and his judgment. Or maybe it was Barry the Goatee and his kamikaze visit to the store. Or the fact that I had plans with Ben last night that fell spectacularly to pieces. I’ve got a laundry list at this point.”

  Butter winces. “That was such a mess. I thought Shannon was going to kill that greasy little sleaze.” She shudders. “How did Ben take all of it?”

  I sigh. “He’s fine now, I think. I eventually convinced him I’m not really sending out carrier pigeons to recruit one-night stands. Although things didn’t exactly improve after we got the Barry stuff sorted out.”

  “Oh, lord.”

  “I know, right?” Shaking my head, I slap my invoices down on the workstation. “We were supposed to try therapy sex again, and I went and drugged myself up to the point of unconsciousness instead.” I hold my hand up to stop the horrified expression building on her face. “I’m fine. I just didn’t think the medicine my doc gave me would knock me out. I slept right through calling Ben back, and by the time I woke up, it was halfway to dawn.”

  “That’s not what you want.”

  “Not so much. But by then, I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I figured I’d do therapy on my own, but it wasn’t working very well. I thought, okay, I’m stressed, the medicine has worn off, I’ve only got eleven stupid days until my deadline, things suck. Then I looked at the printouts, and they said this stuff about relaxing environments with scented candles and shit. So I went to the bodega on the corner in my jammies like an adult at three thirty in the damn morning and was looking for the scented candles.”

  Butter blinks at me. “How’d that go?”

  I lean against my workstation. “Not great. They had one that said it smelled like a shooting star, and I’m telling you, man, nothing has ever pissed me off more than the idea of a candle smelling like a shooting star pissed me off.”

  Pursing her lips, she says, “Um. Why?”

  “Because what the fuck does a shooting star smell like, Butter? Like, please enlighten me on where someone got the comparative scents to make this creation!” I am suddenly shouting. “I mean, come on! Of all the things to make a candle smell like, some genius sat down and thought, shooting star! There’s something a house should smell like! That’s a perfectly identifiable scent that makes absolute sense and isn’t at all ridiculous!”

  Butter snorts. “I’m sorry.” She tries to compose herself. “So, I’m guessing you didn’t get a candle?”

  I wave a hand without much feeling. “No, I did. I’d gone all the way down there. I wasn’t about to leave without a candle, you know?”

  “Probably not Shooting Star?”

  “No. Satsuma Dawn. Surprisingly nice and refreshing, actually.”

  Butter shakes her head. “Sweetie, you need to get laid.”

  “You freaking think?”

  Shannon and Liz come walking in through the back door. “Good morning,” Shannon grunts into a to-go coffee cup. Liz looks surprisingly normal. She’s the only one of us who hasn’t fallen victim to the Coopertown hysterics. I assume she’s never been happier to be the wedding cake expert than she is this week.

  “Although,” Butter continues, looking optimistic, “with all the therapy you’re doing, you’re probably rolling in orgasms, right? That’s gotta cut the tension a little.”

  A bursting laugh rips out of me so hard I think I’ve collapsed a lung. “God, no. Really no. There is nothing sexual about the therapy at all, Butter. It’s not like I’m sitting around jilling off twice a day, every day. Orgasms aren’t part of the deal.”

  Shannon sets her bag down on the desk and turns to face me, eyes still heavy. “Wait. You mean you are doing all that stuff to yourself, and you’re not crossing a finish line?”

  “No.”

  “Not ever?”

  I glare at her. “This is kind of the point of the therapy, dude. To get to a point where I can finish that line.”

  Liz starts setting up her station, but looks confused. “What’s jilling off?”

  Reaching over to pat her on the head, Butter explains, “Guys have jacking off, ladies have jilling.”

  Shaking her head, Liz says, “Why do I ask questions? I never want to know.”

  Shannon ignores them, but looks at me like she just heard someone insist all our world leaders are actually potatoes. “Honey, no wonder you’re so damn tense. You could use a good jilling.”

  “So,” Butter interrupts. “Did the candle help?”

  I scoff, “Not as such. But by then, I had an hour until my alarm was set to go off and it’s possible a thread of insanity had settled in, so I pulled at it.”

  Shannon, still standing over at the desk unloading her things, freezes. “Wait, what did you do?”

  I smooth out the pockets on my apron. “I was feeling a little down about having lost my mojo, you know? So I started thinking about the last time I felt good and confident and sexy, and I honestly couldn’t remember.”

  It’s true. Aside from my funeral/date dress, I couldn’t find a single thing in my closet that made me feel like anything other than a full-time baker. All my shirts have a fine residue of flour on them, and I was disheartened to discover I don’t even own any cute underwear anymore. Everything is practical and sensible and convenient, with the exception of the shoes I bought to wear on my date with Ben.

  And even those were bought with the notion that they’d be comfortable.

  As much as I like to embrace responsibility, the lack of anything lacy or pretty or enticing anywhere in my apartment bummed me out pretty damn hard.

  They’re all staring at me. “So...?” Butter says.

  The words come out in a torrent. “I hopped online and came across this ad, and I signed up for a burlesque class tonight after work at the theater over on Fifteenth.” I sigh and throw my hands in the air. “I don’t know. In the pictures they were all wearing corsets and sequins and had their boobs all propped up. My boobs haven’t been propped up in eons, guys. Everything is stressful and my special is broken and I feel like shaking my ass for a few hours.”

  Shannon stands up straight. “That’s...a great idea. It sounds awesome. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  “Me, too!” Butter says, swaying provocatively in place. “I don’t even need a broken hoo-ha for that. I ju
st like to shimmy.” Then she stops and points at my gym bag. “That’s what you’re doing! I knew you weren’t going to the gym!”

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “Thanks.”

  Liz pipes up. “That sounds fun. I thought about looking into that place for my bachelorette party, but my friends were all too shy for it.”

  My eyebrows lift. “Wait, your friends are shier than you?” She flushes, and I instantly feel bad. “Oh, hon, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just didn’t figure you for the burlesque type.”

  She almost frowns at me. “Just because I’m not as open with talking about things as you guys doesn’t mean I don’t want to do fun stuff.” Her voice gets quiet, and she starts poking at the cutting board on her station. “Shy people want to do things, too, you know.”

  Genuine guilt sets in. Sometimes I forget how being The Mouth comes easily to me. I stuff my hands in my apron pockets. “Um, do you want to come with me tonight? There are plenty of open spots in the class. It looks really fun.”

  “I want to go!” Butter yelps, throwing her hand in the air.

  “Me, too!” Shannon announces.

  I look around at them. “Really?”

  Shannon slaps her hand down on the metal worktop. “Hell yes, I do. This week has been horrible. This is exactly what we all need. A girls’ night out, shaking all our jiggly bits, embracing our lust demons? It can be a team-building exercise or something. Maybe I can write it off as a business expense!”

  “Easy, Tiger,” I say with a grin. I turn back to Liz. “What do you say? You in? I think it’ll be a blast. I’m told they have costumes. I’m very into this idea.”

  Liz fights back a smile and keeps poking at her board. “Okay. I guess so. It really does sound fun.”

  “Yay!” squeals Butter. “I knew I shaved my legs for a reason this morning!”

  28

  Feeling very “reward thyself,” we all decided it was a group lunch from the deli down the street kind of day. With all the pressure we’ve put on ourselves to fill regular orders on top of trying out the new Coopertown recipes, we deserved a treat.