Instant Gratification

by Blakely, Lauren

  The next morning as I run in the park, I call my sister, who’s usually between classes at this time of day in London. Talking to her is always a good reminder of why I do what I do—why I bust my ass, work hard, and keep things on the level.

  Or rather, why I’m going to stay on the good-boy side forever.

  “Hey, you! What’s going on?” she asks when she answers.

  “What would you do if you really wanted something but couldn’t have it?”

  “Like strawberries? Because you know I break out in a rash when I eat them.”

  “Sure. Yeah. Good analogy.”

  She laughs, a little surprise in her tone. “I don’t eat them.”

  “It’s that simple?”

  “Jason. Of course it’s that simple. But I don’t think you’re asking me about strawberries.”

  “Hell, was it that obvious?”

  “As obvious as the fact that all cats ignore humans. So, who is the girl you can’t have?”

  I heave a sigh, slowing my pace so I can share this. “Best friend’s sister. But it’s okay. I have it under control. I’m fine. I’m not even thinking about her.”

  “Are you sure? Because you called me to talk about her. Well, strawberries. But I suspect she’s the strawberries.”

  “Fine. You can see right through me. She’s definitely the strawberries, and I will just pretend I have a strawberry allergy. It works for you.”

  “Mine’s real, you twit.”

  “Sure, right. And it works for you too. It’s exactly what you need to resist strawberries. Therefore, I now have a strawberry allergy.”

  “But you don’t have a strawberry allergy,” she insists.

  “Of course not. And I’d never make light of one either. But perhaps I’ve just recently developed a dire reaction to . . .” I imagine the woman I want, the way she smells, her breezy scent. “Fresh air.”

  * * *

  When Truly and I go to jujitsu the next night, I keep my fresh-air allergy at the top of my mind. I’m not rude to fresh air. I don’t ignore fresh air. I might even praise fresh air for how excellently she executes all sorts of moves, especially when she and Presley go at it during a demo on the mat. Not going to lie. A cat fight is fun as hell to watch, even when it’s staged.

  “Grab her hair!” I call out. See, that’s friendly.

  “I’ll grab your hair next time,” Presley says to me in a huff.

  I grin and throw out, “Scratch her back!”

  “I’m not going to scratch your back, Jason,” Presley shouts.

  “You’re a terrible sport.”

  “I’m not scratching your back either,” Truly says.

  Well, I can’t resist that. “You mean . . . again. You’re not scratching it again.”

  When they finish the demo, Truly’s look says I’m in trouble, and she challenges, “Back-scratching?”

  “I meant it in a friendly way.”

  “Then please note I mean this in a friendly way: you make a terrible cheerleader. Your peanut gallery comments are the worst,” Truly says.

  “It’s because I don’t have pom-poms,” I say.

  Truly tries to rein in a laugh, and so does Presley. There. See. All is well.

  When it’s my turn to demo with Truly, we work on grappling on the floor and I’m all business. A total pro all through class and as we finish.

  And I valiantly resist catching a whiff of the delicious fresh air when we leave class, say goodbye to Presley, and visit another pub that night.

  I am the master of this zone.

  When Truly spins efficiently on her heel, regarding the surroundings and rattling off all the elements of the pub that work (dark wood, types of beers, tankards) and those that don’t (the TV is too close to the pool table, and when a match is on, you can’t hear your friends—plus, pubs are supposed to be warm, homey environments that enable conversations), I tell her I’m giving her an A-plus.

  “You have mastered all things pub.”

  “I’ll take my pub master badge, thank you very much. And I’m ready. I’m going to nail this presentation like a sixteen-year-old gymnast going for Olympic gold.”

  “Or as Eddie the erstwhile best man would say, you’re going to nail it like a showgirl being banged behind a pinball machine.”

  Truly arches a brow. “Hmm. That does sound like a promising way to bang, but I’ll stick with the gymnast analogy. Or how about this? Like a hammer on the head?”

  “That’s a good one too.” I congratulate myself for resisting hammering innuendos, abstaining from nailing, and sidestepping all banging double entendres. Not even tempted, because they’d make me break out in hives due to my sudden onset fresh-air sensitivity. “And let me know how it goes tomorrow. I want a full report.”

  “You’ll get one.” She takes a breath, seems to study my face. Her voice lowers to that tender volume that tries to hook into a part of me I don’t want hooked. “Jason?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for everything. I feel ready . . . because of you. I appreciate everything you’ve done. And we have your final wedding this weekend. I hope this exchange has been helpful for you too.”

  “It’s been great. And we’ll nail the wedding. Speaking of nailing it, how good are we at nailing this friend-zone thing?”

  She smiles softly. “We’re the best. We’re definitely nailing the friend zone.”

  “Like you wanted,” I say, a slight question in my voice that I immediately wish I could strip out. But maybe she won’t notice.

  “And like you wanted as well.” She noticed, but so it goes.

  I stuff my hands into my pockets, holding tightly to resistance. “Yeah. We both did. We both agreed it made sense.” I swallow my desire to kiss her, to thread a hand through her hair, to tell her I want to be so much more than friends. I shove all those nagging feelings aside, along with the wish to spend more time with her, to help each other on other projects, on every project, to be her support in business and life and vice versa.

  After I put Truly in a Lyft home, I walk across town to my place, needing the city air, the fumes, the scent of garbage to erase all my unwise wants.

  33

  Jason

  Once upon a time, I wrote a column on how a man can reinvent himself. Make changes to his mindset, his style, his attitude.

  It remains one of my most popular for one reason. It’s a column about Kara’s Flowers. But it’s the name I gave to my philosophy of reinvention that really shines: Adam Levine-ing.

  For the record, I do not listen to his music. I don’t even think I could live with the shame if anyone found Maroon 5 piping into my earbuds. And yet, Kara’s Flowers is the model for reinvention, and I say as much when Ryder has me back on his show that week.

  “And what do we need to know about Kara’s Flowers?”

  “Everything. It’s literally the model to follow if you feel like you want to make changes in your life. If you want a new career, a new approach to dating, whether you like men, women, or some combination thereof, look no further than a little pop band named Kara’s Flowers. They totally bombed in the mid-90s and were dropped by their label about a month after their first record. But you know what they did?”

  “Tell us. Don’t hold back.”

  “They took one of their guys and made him their front man. Changed their type of music and became a band that has sold more than twenty-seven million albums. Adam Levine is their lead singer.”

  Ryder brings his fingers to his forehead, mimes an explosion, adding in the requisite sound effects. “I’d say they did just fine indeed with this reinvention trick.”

  “Not too shabby, right? It’s a reminder, and frankly, an inspiration, even if you don’t like their music. Sometimes you need to shake things up. Rejigger who you are, how you present, and what type of music you make.”

  “All right, let’s apply this to our audience. Let’s say one of our listeners wants a whole new career. How does he do it? How does he Adam Levine him
self?”

  “He does it step by step,” I say, detailing my tips for prioritizing, changing, and communicating. “And don’t forget one of the most important aspects of Adam Levine-ing.”

  “Serve it up. Give us your best hot tip.”

  “Dress better. That’s what I always tell the men of the world. I don’t know what’s happened to society and this whole wear basketball shorts for everything trend or the athletic wear is now street wear thing. Even jeans, for that matter, should be worn judiciously.”

  Ryder stands in his chair, leaning over the soundboard, checking out my garb. “Guys, this man walks the walk. He’s wearing slacks.”

  “Of course I am. Even if the listeners can’t see it, you need to dress well. No one was ever sent home early from work or school for dressing well. Do that, and it’ll help your cause.”

  When the show is over, Ryder shakes my hand. “You’re killing it, man. Making me look too damn good.”

  “You do that on your own.”

  “See you next week. Make sure to pop by Marie’s office on the way out. She’s cutting checks today for contractors, and she always loves seeing you. I think she’s hoping for your soccer tips.”

  “Football, Ryder. Football.”

  “Never. Not even on pain of torture will I ever say football.”

  * * *

  That’s a sign, if I ever needed one, that this is becoming a regular gig. I say goodbye and head down the hall, feeling pretty damn good about how things are looking.

  “Oh, yes, he’s so charming.”

  I hear a drawling feminine voice coming from the breakroom down the hall, her intonation a mix of Dallas and, well, more Dallas.

  Then another voice joins in, sounding like she’s from Brooklyn—as in, a lifelong Brooklynite. “And he knows everything on the topic. He’s a total delight to listen to with that accent.”

  I square my shoulders, smiling to myself. I am indeed a delight.

  The first voice goes again. “I’m not even into that stuff, Betty, but I find myself trying new things because of him.”

  Well, how about that. My work is reaching women too.

  “I love his attitude, love his style. I told Ryder to hire him for the job. We sooo need someone like that,” says the woman named Betty.

  I pump a fist, slowing my pace because eavesdropping is so not acceptable, but these are extenuating circumstances. I need to hear this.

  “What did he say?” the Dallas woman asks.

  “He thought it was a great idea. He’s bringing him in to finalize it,” Betty from Brooklyn says.

  Yes!

  “He’s the breath of fresh air we need on that show,” Betty adds.

  “Don’t I know it. It’s about time. It’s also about time for our meeting. We better skedaddle,” the Texan replies, and I take that as my cue to nip into Marie’s office and retrieve my check.

  “Looking lovely as always, Miss Marie.” I always enjoy seeing her when it’s paycheck time, and that’s not simply because she’s terrific at handing over money. She’s from the homeland too, so we’ve bonded.

  She pats her blonde hair. “I have a very good hairdresser. She deserves all the credit. Somehow she makes me look like my two teens haven’t made me go gray.”

  “Teenagers? I would have thought toddlers.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Reynolds. Now, take this check and take your girl out for a nice meal.”

  “I don’t have a girl, but if I did, I’d take her someplace fantastic.”

  “I can’t believe you don’t have a lady. If you let me, I could set you up with some of my friends. I have a few divorced ladies who would just scoop you up like an ice cream cone.”

  “I do enjoy ice cream. What flavor exactly?”

  “Does that mean I can play matchmaker?” she leans in to whisper.

  Maybe it’s because our relationship exists on this simple level, or maybe it’s because I’m in a damn fine mood. I glance around as if to make sure the coast is clear, then whisper back. “Not yet. Truth be told, there’s someone I fancy. But we’re just friends.”

  “Friends make the best lovers.”

  “Mrs. Williams!” I say, like she’s shocked me in a Henry James novel.

  “Oh please. Don’t act so astonished. Mr. Williams and I were friends first. And let me tell you, that made all the difference.” She drops her voice. “Why do you think my kids were born one year after I said I do?”

  “I didn’t actually realize they were.”

  “And now you do. Because we were good friends first. So, what’s she like? Your prospective lady?”

  “She’s just a friend. I swear. We are only friends.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Come back in a few weeks and tell me how that’s working out for you. Fifty dollars says you’re more than friends.”

  “One hundred says we’re only friends.”

  We shake on it.

  “Now,” she asks, “who are we betting on this weekend? Chelsea or Manchester United?”

  We debate the merits of each, then decide where to place our bets.

  “Now keep me posted on your friend.”

  “Just a friend.”

  “Right. I believe you. I totally believe you.”

  I blow her a kiss. “Of course,” I say, then tell her I’ll see her next week.

  When I look at the check, I see it’ll cover many nice meals. I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t love money so much as its ability to pay for things I need.

  As I make my way out of the building, I tune in to a podcast on restaurant reviews, since it’s always good to have food recommendations at the ready.

  “The soufflés at Cloud Nine are the very definition of pillowy. Soft, fluffy, and bursting with flavor, they wooed me the entire evening. In fact, I seriously considered spending the rest of the night with my cheese soufflé.”

  I chuckle at the reviewer’s passion. Coco even speaks in a kind of seductive voice that fits her reviews, since food seems to be the ultimate passion for her.

  “In fact, I’m tempted to leave my boyfriend for this . . .”

  I bump into Marcus as I turn into the lobby. He’s out of context here, so it takes a moment for the brain cells to link up.

  Marcus Daniel Craig-Hemsworth?

  “Hey!” He waves to me as he walks over.

  I take out my earbuds. “Hello.”

  “I know you! I mean, I didn’t know you were you when I saw you at my pub.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, unsure why the bartender is here.

  “The Modern Gentleman in New York! I read all your columns. I listen to your podcast. It didn’t click till you left, but then I remembered where I’d heard your voice. On your podcast, and now here. I’m like a Modern Gentleman acolyte.”

  Inside, I’m thinking Walker was dead wrong. I’m not running into wedding guests at my Modern Gentleman gigs. I’m running into fans. Bona fide fans. Could this day be any better? “Thrilled to hear that.”

  “You’re Jason Reynolds, and you have been an inspiration. You’re the reason I’m here today. Well, and your girl too. Let me back up and explain. I can do it in a word, actually. A brilliant term you coined.” He takes a deep, fueling breath. “Adam Levine-ing.”

  “Oh, you heard me on Ryder’s show just now?” I ask, figuring perhaps it’s piped into the lobby or he’d tuned in on his phone.

  “No. I listen to you all the time. I read you every day. Your idea of reinvention is my gospel. I was basically working two jobs, waiting tables, piecing together a living to pay some bills, and I came across your column. It was everything I needed to prioritize, communicate, and dress for the part.” He tugs at his blue button-down. “I learned everything I could about beer. Became a top bartender, and now I make substantially more money. And I took my blog and turned it into a podcast, like your girl suggested. Always hustling.”

  I don’t correct the possessive pronoun before girl. “That was fast.”

  “Yo
u’re telling me.”

  I clap him on the shoulder. “Good on you, mate. Good on you.”

  Maybe I need to revise my stance on how I feel about Marcus with his I know everything about beer and I could kiss you attitude. After all, the man recognized me. The real me. Not the best man, pretend-friend me.

  He points his thumb back down the hallway. “And now I’m here to talk to Ryder about this new job I’ve been hired for.”

  I blink in surprise. “He hired you?”

  “Sure did. My friend Betty told him about me and my new podcast. He called me straightaway and told me he had something for me. And I have you to thank.”

  And Truly.

  He has Truly to thank.

  For that terrible, awful, horrid suggestion.

  I grit my teeth to within a millimeter of cracking their enamel, then slap on my best practiced smile as I shake his hand and wish him well. After all, that’s the gentlemanly thing to do.

  But inside, the reality lashes me harshly.

  I was wrong. I heard the women wrong. Marcus is the guy they were talking about. Marcus is the one they find charming. And Marcus has come here to take the job.

  Because he fucking Adam Levine’d himself, thanks to my advice.

  To mine and to my good friend Truly’s.

  34

  Truly

  I’m locked in my office in the back of Gin Joint, nipping and tucking the presentation I’ll be making later today, when Charlotte calls.

  I answer right away. “Hey.”

  “I tossed a whole silver dollar in the fountain at Lincoln Center today, making a wish for your meeting.”

  “Whoa. Big spender.”

  “Dreams are more likely to come true if you pony up for wishes, right?”

  “Absolutely. Imma go toss my gold bars into the fountain right now. Be right back.”

  She laughs, then I hear her talking to her kids before she pops back on. “Just calling to wish you luck. You don’t need it, but I’m required to wish it anyway. The presentation is going to be fabulous. Will you let me know how it goes?”