The Awkward Path to Getting Lucky

by Summer Heacock

  “Okay, see? This is what happens when someone doesn’t have sex for two years,” I say to Butter. “Their brain becomes completely debilitated by sexual frustration, so they snap and draw penises on cupcakes. This is a nightmare. I’ve completely cocked up my whole life in the last forty-eight hours.”

  Butter raises an eyebrow. “Interesting choice of words.”

  “I’m serious!” I shout. “Ryan is off dating some scarlet-haired home wrecker, Ben is so pissed he won’t even talk to me, I completely humiliated the shop and probably ruined our chance with Coopertown, Shannon and I still have fucking frosting in our hair and—real talk here—sure, the therapy sex worked, but I’m not any closer to getting properly laid than I was a month ago, and I’m reaching critical levels of chaos here, man.”

  Standing up straight, Butter looks at me. “Okay, you know what? You need to deal with some shit here, lady.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She puts her hands on her hips and gives me a rare serious face. “Kat, I love you like family, but you are being pretty damn ridiculous about a lot of stuff right now. You told Ryan to date other people. So he did. What did you think was going to happen? And of course Ben is pissed at you. You’ve been treating him like an inflatable doll for the last few weeks.”

  I blanch. “What? Is this Yell at Kat Day or something? What does that even mean?”

  Butter throws her arms up. “Those rules? Are you kidding? I’ve watched you swoon over Ben more than I’ve ever seen you like that with Ryan in the entire time I’ve known you. Ben likes you! You like him! And you guys can’t date or touch or be intimate, but you wanted to have sex with him? Then you kiss him, and obviously it meant a lot to him, and you try to blow it off like it didn’t really count? And have you ever stopped to think about how all of this has to feel for him? Sure, he signed on to be your under-the-table therapist or whatever, but he’s not a sentient dick that you can just snap to attention. He’s a pretty sensitive dude, you know? This has to be really scary for him, and I haven’t seen you give a shit about his perspective once.

  “And while we’re on the subject, you always do this. Look, you know I like Ryan. He’s a fine dude. But you act like your relationship with him is this hallowed thing you have to get back to, and yes, I know you love the guy, like, really and truly love him, and I’m sure it hurts, but honestly, do you really, actually care that he’s with someone else? Sure, he never called you on your break, but you never called him, either. And have you ever stopped and talked with him about how you both feel about the relationship? Can you even tell me why you’re with him? Have you asked if he wants to get back with you? No! You just order everyone around and then act so shocked when it backfires! You’re always talking about how all this is messing with you, but you never once talked about how he felt about everything. Do you even know? Did you ever ask him? Or is he just another man-shaped game piece you move around when you’re trying to level up?

  “You’ve been acting like Ben’s a freaking piece of therapy equipment while he’s been strolling around falling in love with you. And you aren’t even paying attention to that because you’re so focused on getting a piece. I swear, sometimes you sound like a douchey dude-bro trying to score.”

  I’m gaping at her. “What the hell, Butter?”

  “I’m sorry, hon, I mean, I’ve been trying to let you do this your way, but I don’t think even you know what you’re doing anymore! This isn’t you. You’re not this thoughtless and inconsiderate person who would completely ignore the fact that you’ve been trampling that boy’s feelings this whole time.”

  Stricken, I cling to the arms of the chair. “I... I didn’t mean to trample his feelings. Or Ryan’s.”

  Butter softens her stance. “Kat, I know that. And I think they do, too. You’re the real you most of the time. Otherwise they wouldn’t have stayed around. But this has all gotten way out of hand. Not only are you completely bypassing their feelings, but I also don’t think you’ve ever stopped to think about yours. Ignoring how you feel about everything doesn’t seem like a healthy way to live. And it’s spilling over into everything. You’re strung out and unhappy. I’m worried about you.”

  I blink away the burning behind my eyes. “Look, it’s not like I’m some kind of sexual robot or something, but I’m not used to this. Sex was always a casual, easygoing thing. And now it’s this huge, scary big deal with all this pressure, and it’s been built up into this giant monolith that’s blocking out everything else.

  “And with every other guy I’ve been with, I get a crush, then comes the sex, and then maybe we’d fall for each other. That’s how it was with Ryan. And yes, I do love Ryan. I just...” My head twitches to the side, and I will tears to stay behind my lids where they belong. “It’s just been easier for me not to think about it. He’s always waiting for me to make the decisions, you know? But I don’t know what decisions I’m supposed to be making here. Objectively, all the facts say we should be a perfect couple, you know? But it doesn’t feel perfect. It doesn’t even feel right. And I kept thinking if I could fix the sex stuff, it would all fall into place.”

  She shakes her head. “Is that really how you want to be in your relationship? Trying to force it to live up to some bogus idea of perfection?”

  I’m horrified when I feel my lip wibble. “No. I just never thought of it like that before.” Willing my mouth to behave, I add, “And as for Ben, I don’t know how to deal with feelings for someone I am definitely not supposed to be having. Especially after sleeping with him, albeit therapeutically. Everything is so backward.” I lightly kick the desk drawer. “I say that like I could ever have a shot to be with him. I really screwed this up. He was so angry with me, Butter.”

  “Have you told him any of that? About being scared and how you’re all up to your ears in feelings for him? Or told Ryan that the fire died out a long time ago?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then Ben should be angry with you. Ryan put you in the place of decision maker, and maybe that’s not fair, but Ben’s been looking to you to lead the way because you flat-out told him you needed everything to be this and that way with your rules. And then what? You expect him to read your mind? Or worse, you think he can do all the right things with only half the information? You’re setting the whole operation up to fail, Kat. Damn right he’s mad.”

  I look down at my hands, fidgeting uncomfortably. “I don’t know what to do, Butter. Fixing stuff is what I do, it’s my thing. But I don’t know how to fix any of this.”

  Butter shrugs again. “Maybe it’s time to swerve your approach, baby. Because what you’ve been doing sure as hell isn’t working.”

  Bashfully tugging at the seam down the leg of my jeans, I ask, “Have you felt this way the whole time? Why didn’t you say something?”

  She grabs her glitter brush and starts twirling it between her fingers. “For a while, yeah. And sweetie, have you ever tried telling you anything? You’re stubborn as hell.”

  I tilt my head. “I get that a lot.”

  “Now,” she says, pocketing her brush, “while you’re thinking of that spectacular new approach, get your ass out of that chair and help me out. We are way behind, and it sounds like we are going to have to learn how to make fondant penises.”

  I grin at her. “Never a dull day at work.”

  42

  “Thanks for meeting with me,” I say, awkwardly adjusting my glass of wine on its coaster.

  “No problem at all,” Ryan says with a calm smile. “I’m glad you called. Things were really weird last night.”

  After everything Shannon and Butter said to me earlier, I’ve realized this is the closure I should have made a priority ages ago.

  It’s time to get to the bottom of the mess.

  It’s taking every fiber of my being not to pick up this glass of wine, unhinge my jaw and
swallow the contents whole. And then follow suit with the rest of the bottle.

  He looks nice. Like himself. He’s come straight from work, clad in a T-shirt under an open flannel shirt and jeans. It suits him.

  I managed to sneak out of the shop in time to grab a shower before we met up. There was a moment of dismay when I realized it was the second time in two days I had to shower pieces of cake and frosting out of my hair.

  If that’s not a sign I need to make some changes in my life, I honestly don’t know what is.

  Sitting here with Ryan is awkward, but it’s a weirdly comfortable awkwardness. This is the same groove we’ve spent years in, but I can’t deny the nagging pressure of trying to sort out our relationship woes.

  He takes a sip of his drink, some pale ale that was on tap. He’s always very low-key about booze. He orders whatever’s on hand, or what’s listed as a special, and never complains. Not even when he gets stuck with some bottom-drawer beer that’s beyond what we would have tolerated at a free kegger in college.

  A year into our relationship, all his engineering work buddies started getting into microbreweries and various beer snob activities. They’d attempt brewing fancy beers in their own garages, have weekly tastings and stand around talking hoppiness and undertones, but Ryan couldn’t take it all seriously. He went when invited, was polite and enthusiastic about their pursuits, but as soon as he came home, he’d laugh with me about how not a one of those home brews tasted like anything other than spoiled, wet bread.

  It was endearing.

  I’d forgotten he could be endearing.

  When did I forget that?

  “So,” I say, trying to coolly take a sip of wine. “How’s Alice?”

  He smiles. “We don’t have to talk about her, babes. I figured you wouldn’t want to know.”

  “I miss your hair,” I blurt out, still clutching my wineglass.

  “What?”

  I slump down against the table. “I miss your curls. I never said anything because I knew that whole Cumberbatch thing bothered you, but I really miss them.”

  He absentmindedly reaches up and tries to tug at the tiny strands of hair. “Huh. I kind of like not having them.”

  “You look really great either way,” I offer truthfully. “I just always loved the curls.”

  With a gentle smile, he takes a drink. “Look, I am really sorry about the last night. That was a bizarre situation.”

  “Honestly, that was all on me. I should’ve called first.”

  “Do you want to go for it again?” he asks. “I don’t have any other plans tonight.”

  My stomach feels heavy. I know the answer to that question, and it’s not what I ever would have expected.

  “No.” I sigh. “I don’t want to try again.”

  “That’s cool,” he says, so casually that I know he doesn’t understand what I mean. “We can wait until Monday for our anniversary like we planned.”

  I try to pull in a deep breath, but there’s no room for air in my tension-filled body. “No, I mean I don’t want to try again at all, Ryan.”

  He’s mid-sip as I say this and freezes for a moment, his eyes locking with mine over the pint glass. Finishing the swallow, he sets the beer down.

  “Well, that’s fine. I always said the sex stuff didn’t bother me, anyway.”

  I take an extraordinarily long pull on my wine before placing my glass back on the table. I twist the stem around with my fingers and stare at the dark crimson liquid lightly sloshing around inside.

  “Ryan,” I say, knowing this is the beginning of the end. “Tell me some bad things about our relationship. What do you think doesn’t work with us?”

  He narrows his gaze, obviously confused, but lifts a shoulder and drops it quickly. “I don’t think there’s anything bad about us.”

  “You don’t think there’s anything that doesn’t work about you and me?”

  He truly considers this. “No, I don’t. I think we get along fine with everything. I mean, the last few weeks have been kind of weird, but I wouldn’t call it bad. We get by fine.”

  I take another sip of my pinot noir. “‘Fine.’ I think that’s the whole problem right there.”

  He is starting to look annoyed. “What problem?”

  “Are you even happy?” I ask, feeling years of frustration building up behind my tongue. “I am seriously asking.”

  “Sure!” he says too quickly. No time taken to think about the answer. “Well, I’m not unhappy, anyway.”

  “That’s not how relationships are supposed to be!” I insist, trying to convince myself as much as him. “Caring a lot about the other person but feeling completely neutral about everything else isn’t romance, hon. It’s friendship.”

  He taps his glass with his fingernail while he thinks. I hate how genuinely perplexed he looks. Part of me wonders if I’ve put off acknowledging the details of this mess for so long because of just how much it pains me to see him look this way. “Isn’t that good, though? A relationship where two people are best friends?”

  My chest is aching. Not because I know what’s coming, but because I’m certain he doesn’t, and I don’t want to hurt him, ever.

  “It is,” I agree. “But there has to be more, you know? A spark.”

  “We don’t have a spark?”

  There’s a burning flash of resentment I can’t keep inside. I’ve always appreciated his go-with-the-flow approach to life, but sometimes people have to adult, whether they want to or not. And right now, I need him to get with the program of honestly searching that soul of his.

  “I don’t want to give you my last dumpling!” I snap at him.

  He blinks at me. “Is that a euphemism?”

  I roll my eyes so hard I see gray matter. “No. And I’m serious. I haven’t wanted to offer you the last dumpling for a long damn time, Ryan. That’s not good.”

  It’s his turn to sound resentful. “I don’t have a fucking clue what that means, Kat.”

  I take a slow, unsteady breath. It’s not his fault he isn’t following along. I’m barely making sense to myself. Reaching over, I set my hand on his. “Ryan, I genuinely wouldn’t mind hearing about you and Alice.”

  He squints at me. “That’s a weird segue.”

  I smile as I sigh and give his hand a squeeze. “I mean it. It should absolutely bother me that you’ve been seriously dating someone else when that wasn’t part of our break agreement. But it doesn’t. When I think about it, I just wonder if she makes you happy—like, spark happy—and it makes me want to hear all about how great she might be.

  “And that’s great from a best friend, but it’s really, really bad from someone who is supposed to be your girlfriend.”

  “What does that mean?”

  My breaths are becoming shallow, and I want to be damn sure I say this right. “Do you know we never talked about what brought on the vaginismus?”

  He sits back in his seat, pulling his hand out from under mine. “I thought we did. It was just a thing that happens sometimes, right?”

  I feel really, really sad. Because he’s right, in a way. At the time, I had no idea why my business went on strike.

  But I’d figured it out after a few months, even though I’d refused to admit it to myself until now.

  “I love you a lot. I loved you back when this started. But I don’t think we were ever as good a fit as the pro and con lists made us look.” I can’t help it when my eyes drop to the table. I’m ashamed I let myself ignore all the blatant signs of us heading south for this long. I’m ashamed I let us both waste this much time when things should have gone so differently.

  “If I’d been paying attention, I would have known that things started to end for me when you made it very clear how stupid you thought something like role-playing is. I was only
sort of serious about it, but that you’d blow something off and mock it without even stopping to think that it might be important to me was such a bad sign.”

  I see it in his eyes, the indignation that comes with being called out on a mistake. I know that feeling all too well. It’s disconcerting at best to see it play across his face. And even more unsettling to see the remorse that replaces it.

  If I stop to focus on how pained he looks, I’ll lose my nerve trying to undo it. Grasping at resolve, I continue, “And then, when I was having trouble, you snarked about how weird the couples therapy stuff was. Your reactions made me feel guilty and embarrassed for needing or wanting things you didn’t. And since feeling exposed isn’t my favorite thing, I felt like I couldn’t trust you with the vulnerability of being honest with you.”

  I can’t read his expression properly, but if I had to guess, I’d pick anger. “Are you seriously trying to blame your broken...stuff on me because I didn’t want to dress up like Captain fucking America?”

  I feel like jumping out of my skin, cracking a joke and fleeing from this bar. My feet are twisting over each other under the table, and I feel uncomfortably hot despite the normal temperature of the room. “Not at all! I take full responsibility for not being more honest with you about how everything was making me feel. Hell, I wasn’t even honest with myself at the time.”

  “Are you breaking up with me?”

  There it is. The question. The bomb that’s been hovering in the air, defying gravity and waiting to crash down to earth for far too long.

  The explosion is real, but less damaging than I’d feared.

  I close my eyes and try to conjure up the air I need. “Do you remember when we started staying in more, and we’d find some awesome new show on Netflix, completely fall for it and spend an entire weekend devouring every episode we could squeeze in because it was so perfect and gave us all the feelings?”

  He nods, and I continue. “But after four or five seasons, the shows would start sucking. They’d lose all the good stuff that made them great originally. The quippy side character left to star in some other show that only lasted a season. The head writer quit because of contract issues. The show runner got so popular that they had three shows going and their attention was spread too thin. The chemistry that reeled us in was gone because the original story line was all played out.