The Awkward Path to Getting Lucky

by Summer Heacock

  As we all get accustomed to our chairs, and the idea of sitting essentially spread-eagle on them in front of a giant mirror, one of the other instructors brings out a giant bin with wheels that is overflowing with sparkling tulle.

  “To really bring this home,” Robin says, slinking between our chairs, “you ladies need a little bit of flair.” She sticks her hand into the bin, pulls out a tutu and hands it to the student closest to her. “These are props in the dance, but they also give your ass a little sass.”

  They walk around the room and give each of us a tutu. Shannon gets a bright pink one with sequins and gleefully pulls it on over her head. Butter receives turquoise and steps into it like her whole life has built up to this moment. Liz is handed a glittering fiery-red tutu, which I love. She smiles bashfully and tugs it on.

  Robin hands me what appears to be black tulle and strips of pliable tin foil. It’s spectacular-looking. These all look handmade and are very stretchy. I step into my tutu and, without meaning to, catch myself admiring the view in the mirror.

  I’d be embarrassed, but all the other women are doing the same. We look awesome. What’s not to look at?

  Our moment of sparking whimsy passes as the nearly empty bin is wheeled away and Robin snaps her fingers. Asses to chairs, legs in the air.

  30

  My arms feel like gummy worms. My legs are in a state best left unacknowledged.

  I don’t even care. Last night was the tits.

  I’m still shimmying to “Lady Marmalade” in my head.

  Plus, we got to keep the tutus. So that was cool.

  “I think we should wear them here,” Butter says, bagging up some brownies for a customer. “We could make it a thing. Like Tutu Tuesdays or something.”

  I consider the notion. “I support this.”

  Shannon hands a coffee across the counter to a customer and winces slightly. There’s not a one of us not feeling the burn today. “Thanks for visiting,” she says before turning to us. “That would be fun. Tutu Tuesdays. We could have a special cuppie to go with it.”

  “I just want to wear mine again,” Butter says and grins. “I looked good in that thing.”

  The corner of my mouth pulls up as I pour more grounds in the coffee maker. “Yeah, you did. And I’m not gonna lie, guys. I’m looking forward to breaking mine out, too. As well as any or all of the moves from last night. Or, possibly, should the situation arise, the moves with the tutu.”

  “Good morning, Ben,” Shannon says, her voice breaking with laughter. I wheel around, my sore muscles making me regret it instantaneously.

  “Naturally,” I say, shaking my head. Shannon moves down to help another customer, still laughing. Liz stands beside me at the register, giggling. We are at the end of our morning rush, so this isn’t nearly as horrific as it could have been. His presence is familiar, but there’s a vibe out of place and it takes me a minute to figure out what it is. “Hey! It’s Saturday. You never come in here on Saturdays, and even worse, it’s Saturday and you’re wearing a tie! What fresh hell is this?”

  “I’m covering for one of the other managers today.” He gives a playful tug of resignation on his tie. “Her daughter’s in this statewide debate death match or something.”

  I click my tongue. “Kids today with their academic blood sports.”

  “So, tutus, huh?” he says, smiling. “That sounds pretty cool.”

  “Good morning, Ben.” I give him a wink and get back to loading the coffee maker.

  “Morning. And to you, ladies,” he says.

  Butter carefully bounces over to the counter. “Hey, Ben. Do you have any friends?”

  I turn around and gape at her. “Butter!”

  She shrugs at me. “I mean single ones!” Turning back to Ben, she says, “So, do you? Maybe ones that you could set up with me?”

  Ben smiles and pulls lightly on his tie. “I can probably think of a few.”

  Shannon comes back over and sighs at her. “Butter, what—”

  “Hey,” Butter interrupts and hisses at her. “Look, you. I don’t know about you guys, but that class got some things riled up, and I had to go home alone last night, okay? You got to go home to your husband.” She turns and points at Liz. “And you have Paul.” Then she pokes me in the ribs. “And now you’ve got that one. So, excuse me, but I’ve got some needs that have to be met, here.” She spins back to Ben and a giant smile appears on her face. “If you can think of any lovely ladies or gentlemen to send my way, I’d appreciate it.”

  She grabs an empty cookie tray and sashays back into the kitchen. We can do nothing but stare after her.

  Eventually, I say, “That was...surreal.”

  Ben leans across the counter and, with a genuinely worried look, whispers, “What kind of class did she take?”

  Liz snort-laughs at the register, and Shannon claps her hand over her mouth.

  I grin. “We took a burlesque class last night. You know, as people do.”

  He blinks at me. “You...you all took a burlesque class? And now you have...tutus?”

  One corner of my mouth curls up. “Pretty typical Friday night, I thought.”

  He steps back and stares at me for a moment. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re being serious or if you’re just trying to see if I’ll squirm.” Shaking his head, he continues. “Either way, I thought I’d see if you wanted to grab dinner tonight. I know it’s a crazy week, so no pressure.”

  “I am being very serious, and seeing you squirm is just a happy side effect.” I give him a little wink. “And sure. I feel like it’s been an age since I saw you in a non-mortifying capacity. Dinner sounds nice.”

  He grins and pushes his thumb between his eyebrows. “Sounds good. Should I come get you after work? If so, can I be certain there won’t be any riots in the lobby? And will you be conscious?”

  I reach behind me and pour his regular morning coffee. “Sure on the picking me up,” I say, putting the to-go lid on. “I’m almost certain on the consciousness. No promises on the riots. And since I won’t have time to change into the tutu before dinner, there’s no charge on the coffee.”

  I hand him the coffee, and he looks suspicious.

  Shannon steps in. “Yes, there really is a tutu, and she looks magnificent in it.”

  I give Shannon the side-eye while Liz giggles hysterically. Ben lets out a slow, deep breath, shakes his head and says, “I’ll see you at six.” As he’s leaving, I’m sure I hear him mutter, “I’ve got to find a new place for coffee.”

  Our day trucks on, and all of us seem to have a renewed jaunty feel. Admittedly, Shannon and Liz both appear to have extra jaunt. I’m guessing Butter’s theory rings true. She and I had to go home with our post-writhing tension and greet empty beds. The others had outlets for that energy, and they both seem pretty damn chipper about it.

  I feel a rejuvenated sense of internal roar that’s making me want to throw on something sassy and go dancing, or at the very least invest in a really good push-up bra.

  At the same time, there’s a buildup of tension that’s wearing a bit heavy on me. Last night I had dreams of corsets and sequins and sweatiness. They were some pretty spectacular dreams.

  Then they ended, and now I’m awake and alone and elbow-deep in frosting, with aching thigh muscles that hurt like a bastard when I have to squat down and restock the display case. Miss Robin wasn’t freaking kidding about using parts we didn’t know we had.

  At six, I hang up my apron, wave goodbye to my gals, and head out front to see Ben waiting on the sidewalk by his car, looking very ready to weekend.

  “Long week?” I ask as I come through the door.

  He smiles at me. “In a few short hours, this tie will be gone and life will be glorious until Monday.”

  “You could take it off now, you kn
ow,” I suggest. “I wouldn’t report you or anything.”

  He looks at me as though the thought had genuinely never occurred to him. “See, now I’m wondering what else in my life I’m doing wrong.”

  Giving him a kind smile, I reach up and loosen his tie. “It’s okay,” I say, pulling it through his collar. “This whole adult thing is rough. We can’t be expected to be on point all the time.”

  He looks at me and swallows hard. I carefully unbutton the top button of his shirt, working hard not to accidentally choke him. “And it’s pretty hot, so if you wanted to take your jacket off, that would be fine,” I offer. “I mean, you’re off the clock now. This is the wild time.”

  He nods slightly, so I go ahead and slide his jacket off his shoulders and down his arms.

  I drape his jacket and tie over my arm and am standing as close to him as possible without backing him into his car. “And,” I continue, “if you wanted to really cut loose, you could even untuck your shirt, Mr. Cleary. Go full rebel.”

  He clears his throat and jumps out of the way quickly. “No,” he says, his hand going to his stomach, where there is no longer a tie to grab. “No, I think we’re good where we are. I’m fine.”

  I grin and open the car door. I carefully set his clothing on the back seat before I climb in the passenger side. It takes him a minute to get into his seat.

  We drive in silence for a bit, and I’m a little concerned I went too far. Maybe on the heels of the morning tutu squirm, he wasn’t in the mood.

  “Can I ask you something?” he says as he drives.

  “Sure.”

  “Just now, were you teasing me, or flirting with me?”

  My head snaps up. “Um. I guess both. Was that not okay?”

  “It’s fine,” he says, although his tone has me thinking maybe that’s not entirely true. Guilt settles into my stomach. “No, what’s got me confused is how you can be so impossibly confident in every part of your life—including flirting—but so unconfident with sex. I don’t get it.”

  “Whoa!” I turn in my seat so my body is facing him. “For starters, I’m not impossibly confident with every part of my life, but I am also certainly not unconfident with sex!”

  We are at a stoplight, so he’s able to turn and give me a disbelieving look. “Kat.”

  Bristling, I snap, “Excuse me, I am very confident with sex!” I pull in a breath to form my argument, but all my potential sexual encounters with Ben start flashing through my head. I make a face. “Well, I used to be.”

  “I didn’t mean that as an attack,” he says, navigating us through the city. “I know it sounded like one. I’m sorry. But I’m really confused. When you say something to me, I take you at your word—I trust what you’re telling me. But you come on very strong like that, and then another minute you’re anxious and talking about how important the rules are to you, and I don’t understand. I’m trying really hard to keep up.”

  I wish we weren’t driving. I want him to stop so we can look at each other. “Ben, I know I’m...” I pause, trying to find any kind of acceptable word here “...difficult. But I haven’t been playing you or something. I swear, I’m not screwing with you on purpose.”

  “I get that I’m easy to mess with,” he says, eyes on the road. “And that’s fine, but it gets confusing.”

  “Ben, pull over,” I interrupt. “Please, pull over.”

  His chest rises, and the muscle in his impressive jaw is working harder than I’d like, but he does as I asked and finds a place to park. I undo my seat belt and pull myself up onto my knees on the seat. He’s got his hands resting on his legs, looking down at the steering wheel. I reach out and take his wrist in my hand.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Really, I am sorry. I am sardonic and dry, and I don’t always think about how what I’m saying is coming off to other people, and I rarely see how it makes me a jerk.”

  He breaks his statue pose and says, “You’re not a jerk.”

  “No, I absolutely can be. And I don’t mean to be a dick to you. And I will fully admit that I sometimes get caught up in the whole making you squirm thing, because it’s supposed to be funny and I don’t think about how it’s probably not that hilarious to you.

  “But, also—” I pull my hand away from his and slide back into my seat, because I’m suddenly feeling very exposed “—I feel like, if we were just...us, you know, without all the rest of the weird stuff happening, these are the things I’d be doing, and it would be okay because there wouldn’t be the weirdness. I’m sort of out of my depth here.”

  He leans his head back against his seat, and he slumps down a little. He lifts his hands up and drops them down on the bottom of the steering wheel. He’s deep in thought, and I want to know what those thoughts are—desperately—but I don’t want to interrupt him.

  He’s staring at something out of focus, outside the windshield. I stare in the same direction, not finding anything worth that level of attention.

  Finally he turns his head to me and says, “This is hard.”

  I can’t deny there’s an uncomfortable pang in my chest at his words. “Yeah, it is,” I agree. “A lot harder than it should be. And it’s okay if you want to walk away. I really would understand.”

  His head is still tilted against his seat. He looks tired. The corner of his mouth pulls up just enough to ease my discomfort. “And miss out on the tutu? No way. I’m invested.”

  I laugh, though more out of relief than amusement. It’s hard for me, the idea of him reaching his limit. “I’m glad.” I reach over and touch his arm, because I want to do something and can’t think of anything else I can do that doesn’t violate all my own damn rules. “And I am sorry I upset you, Ben. I promise I’ll keep the squirming in check. ‘Don’t be a jerk’ is high on my to-do list, okay? You have my word.”

  He lifts one shoulder and lets it drop. “I don’t know. Not all the squirming is so bad.”

  I consider this. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  Leaning forward in my seat, I lift an eyebrow at him. “Okay, if you’re so awkward all the time, how in the hell are you so confident about sex stuff? I mean, the glitter on the neck thing. Dude.” I remember the assured way he held me, and how his teeth...

  I shudder in a perfectly delightful way.

  He looks at me and grins. “We all have our skills.”

  31

  Sorting through different shades of glitter pots, I wonder how I became a woman who has an entire drawer of sex toys in her bedroom but can’t get laid. How is this my life?

  The Coopertown presentation is in two days. The morning show is tomorrow morning. Seven days until my two years of sexless living deadline hits, better known as our anniversary.

  I also have no clean socks.

  My to-do list is getting out of hand.

  Struck by a sudden urge, I pull out my phone and fire off a text to Ben, asking if he’d like to have dinner tonight.

  “What are you doing?” Shannon asks, reading over my shoulder.

  I gently elbow her in the ribs. “Stop snooping, Maude. In two days, our cupcake gauntlet will be over, and I’m down to a week to get my special in gear, okay? I’m multitasking.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Shannon says, grabbing for my phone. I quickly tuck it into the front pocket of my jeans and stick my tongue out at her. “You have to be up at like four tomorrow to be at the studio, Little Miss. This is not the night for you two to get ten bottles of wine deep in therapy, okay?”

  “Rude.”

  “I’m serious!” She frowns at me. “For the next forty-eight hours, we are all cupcakes, got it? No distractions.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “The dictator look isn’t very becoming, you know. And this isn’t about therapy. I just wanted to hang out with him, have
dinner or something.”

  “Aww,” says Butter, resuming her piping. “That’s sweet.”

  Rolling my eyes, I head over to the cooling racks and start pulling off the trays of cupcakes I’ve got resting for the show tomorrow morning. “Chill, Shannon. We are all hyper-focused. We sweat buttercream. We cry little cupcake-shaped tears. We’ve got this.”

  “We’d better,” she grumbles as she sits at the desk and starts shuffling through invoices.

  It’s nearing the end of the day, and while we will soon start our nightly teardown, right now my main focus is making sure all my gear is prepped for tomorrow morning. I’ll be stopping by before the sun rises to pack everything up for my television debut on Channel 7. I’ve got little tubs full of sprinkles and decorations all ready to go, prefilled bags of frosting dyed and measured and carefully packed up. Now I will put all of the cooled bare cuppies in boxes, and that should be everything I need to go.

  Shannon is going to meet me here at five so I can borrow her van to drive to the studio. Taking all the gear in a cab or on a bus didn’t seem like a good idea to anyone.

  Maybe that’s why she’s so grumpy. Shannon isn’t much of a morning person.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I check it stealthily so as to not draw any further ire from my neurotic friend. A new text from Ben says he’s in for dinner tonight, and I feel the edge of my mouth twitch up.

  Shannon’s right. Tonight is definitely not the night to try anything therapy-related with Ben, but that’s not why I sent him the text.

  I’ve done all the prep I can for tomorrow. And every other waking moment of my life here is spent getting ready to send Shannon off to the Coopertown presentation in two days. Sure, a lot of time with Ben is spent freaking out about how we are going to get a thing into another thing, but the rest of the time—the time when we are just us—it’s kind of wonderful.

  And I need that tonight. I need a break from cupcake madness and the reality that my professional life is hanging in the balance over the next few days.

  Plus, I’m still feeling really shitty for the way I acted the other night, and I want to prove to Ben that I can go for extended periods of time without being a monster.