by Mimi Strong
Feather smiles sweetly. “Tea cakes? Are you suggesting we take a short break?”
“No! Keep going. I just mean…” I trail off when Drew looks up at me with his big brown eyes, like he’s begging me to let him stay.
“Your call,” he says, looking all vulnerable and puppy-eyed.
He’s wearing an orange tie with splotchy flowers. It’s the ugliest tie I’ve ever seen. I want to grab him by the tie and strangle him. But I also want to hold his face in my hands and nibble his eyebrows.
“You should stay,” I tell him. “And I’ll stay.” I sit back down in my chair with a hard plopping sound and a jolt that goes up my spine. “We’ll both stay, and we’ll work on all our problems.”
“Good,” he says.
“Good.”
We both turn and look at Feather. She’s holding her fingers to her mouth, like she might throw up. Either she’s not past the morning sickness phase, or Drew and I are about to make her vomit. This isn’t good.
She puts her hand down slowly and rests it on her knee.
“Good,” she says. “Drew, why don’t you go ahead and share next, while Meenie composes her thoughts.”
He rolls his shoulders back, suddenly cocky. All of his humility is instantly gone, and we’re back on his talk show. Now what is he going to say?
“I called up the lady who had my balls,” Drew says, looking self-satisfied. “I got those balls back, and I tucked them back onto myself, and that’s why I’m here.” He gives me a fiendish look. “All thanks to Meenie’s suggestion.”
The group turns to look at me. I can feel their support shifting even further toward Drew, and against me. Even though I spent the entire day making fancy tea cakes, for them. The nerve.
Abbie leans in and whispers, “What does he mean?”
Her whisper is loud enough for the whole group to hear.
Drew doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Last week, Meenie tried to drive me away from the group. She said I have no balls. I don’t think she meant to, but she seems to be a… complicated girl.”
I raise my hand. “That means bitch, everyone. Drew’s insulting me. I vote we give him a time out.”
This stirs up some noise, and people start to argue. We don’t usually do time outs, but it has happened.
Feather gets up from her chair, covering her mouth. “I’m not feeling so great.” Her porcelain skin is as white as cake flour. “Excuse me, I just need to use the restroom.” She runs clumsily from the room.
Drew gestures to her empty chair with one gorgeous hand. Does he have a manicure? His nails are shiny.
“Meenie, you should take over,” he says, laughing. The others join him with their own chuckles. “You seem to like being in control.”
I get up and cross over to Feather’s chair, calling his bluff.
“First order of business,” I announce. “All in favor of giving Drew a time out?”
Everyone but Drew looks down at the ground. I feel like a high school teacher looking for a volunteer to solve a chemistry equation. Drew maintains steady eye contact, his kissable lips curved in a smug grin.
“Fine. I’m complicated,” I spit out. “But I was just joking around with you. Can’t you take a joke? I’ve hung out with guys before. Most of my friends in school were other wrestlers, and they constantly razzed each other about their balls. Why is it that some guys can’t take the same joke, when it comes from a woman?”
The group is very still, like they’re pondering the same question.
One woman raises her hand. Deborah has been coming to the group for a few months now, trying to cope with her anxiety over trying to be the perfect mother. In fact, that’s why most of the ladies are here. I’m the only one who doesn’t have any major issues, probably because I don’t have kids. I only started coming here by accident. I don’t have problems like these people do.
Deborah keeps waving her hand. I nod for her to go ahead, and she says, “I was watching a TV show last night, and the wife said something to the man about him not having any balls… and he killed her. He picked up a hammer and just whacked her right on the head.”
The group gasps, and Drew starts to laugh. He pretends to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes.
Within seconds, everyone is asking Deborah what TV show it was, and they start talking about the show. One of the younger women pulls out her phone and starts reading text messages, oblivious to everyone. The few older men in the group just look confused.
I’m terrible at leading this group.
My heart sinks. For the past few months, I’ve been harboring a fantasy that I could be an assistant to Feather, or one day run my own support group. I’d have to take some more courses, like Feather’s been doing, but now those dreams are evaporating.
I glance over at the door and rub my damp palms on my jeans. Tonight is a total write-off. I came here to get some wisdom, but clearly fate had other plans.
Total disappointment.
I keep staring at the door and feel a rush of relief as I imagine myself slipping out right now. Maybe my time at this group has run its course, and I should find something else to do Tuesday nights. I hear there’s a good pottery studio here at the community center.
I lean down to grab my purse from the floor.
I’m out of here. This chapter of my life is finished.
Chapter 8
My hand passes through empty air where I expect my purse to be. Of course. My purse is not under my chair, because I’m in Feather’s seat.
Before I can get up, Drew says to me over the din of everyone else chatting, “Meenie! You lost control over your group. When Feather gets back, you’re in trouble.”
I shoot back, “Oh, what do you know, Mr. Fancy Manicure? Seriously. Why are your hands so clean and perfect?”
His eyebrows raise, and he moves to fold his hands on his lap, tucking his finders under and hiding his nails.
“Too late,” I call out over the noise. “I already saw your shiny nails, Mr. Manicure. That’s my new name for you, by the way.”
He shrugs. “Better than Mr. No-Balls.”
“Why are you even here?” My words come out like poison arrows. “What’s your damage, anyway?”
“You go first. What’s your damage?”
I snort. “I don’t have any damage. I came here the first time thinking it was a Weight Watchers group, then I just sorta stuck around.”
His dark, sexy eyes flit down my face and over my body. He licks his lips. “You don’t need to lose weight. If anything, you could stand to put a little meat on your bones.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re a salesman, aren’t you? That must be in the guidebook of cheesy things to say to manipulate any woman on the planet. Ugh, I’m not stupid. What do you sell? Fancy cars?”
“What do you sell?”
I give him an eye-flash worth of attitude. “Flowers. I own Gardenia Flowers, on Baker Street.” The last part is not entirely a lie. On paper, my sister and I are equal partners and owners. My mother opened the store, though, and the store knows it. When she’s in town, she takes over. Whatever. Drew thinks he’s blue cheese on Carr’s water biscuits. If I tell him I’m a lowly peasant who works at her mother’s shop, he’ll probably say something arrogant that makes my fist fly up into his mouth.
“The flowers sell themselves,” I add. “We don’t resort to your style of smarmy high pressure tactics.”
“What?” Drew gets up, picks up his chair, and circles around the outside of the group. Everyone is still talking about the TV show, mixed in with a bit of speculation over Feather possibly being pregnant. I should probably try to get everyone back on track, but now Drew is slipping his chair back into the circle next to my chair, and taking a seat next to me.
A pleasing, manly scent wafts into my nose. This smell is new. The community center smells like the back of a family car, with crayons, dog hair, and fast food wrappers melted into the upholstery like some unholy stew.
Drew, however, s
mells like that freshness that hits you when you peel a grapefruit. There’s also a hint of sweetness, like cocoa. And a musky scent I think of as testosterone. Citrus, chocolate, and balls. That’s what I smell. And my nipples are getting hard. Interesting.
“I couldn’t hear you,” he says, his voice gentle yet still manly.
Citrus. Chocolate. Balls.
Now I know how zombies feel about brains. ME WANT WHAT ME SMELL.
Oh, crap. He’s still talking.
“Wha-wha-what?” I stammer.
He repeats himself. “I couldn’t hear you over the noise. Did you say you run a flower shop, or did you say it’s a secret military training facility? I can’t see you playing with daisies, but I can see you crushing the spirits of young military men, breaking their will to defy orders, then building them up again as trained ninja-like assassins.”
My mouth can’t help but smile at his joke. “That’s a good one,” I admit.
He gets comfortable on his chair, angling his body open toward me. Everything about him right now feels very open, from the polite and inquisitive look on his face, right down to his shoes. His feet are pointing toward me, yet angled out at the toes, like a funnel drawing me in.
Feather has been talking to us about body posture, so I notice it even more now. I think I’m naturally perceptive of the way people telegraph their thoughts with small gestures. It made me an excellent wrestler, that ability to anticipate moves. The only problem is, sometimes I get so caught up in the whirlwind of craziness happening in my brain, I forget to really look at other people.
“You’d be a great personal trainer,” Drew says with sincerity. “I like how honest you are.”
“I like how you had the balls to come back this week.”
“You were surprised to see me.” He looks back down at my lap, his gaze moving over my jeans. His hand twitches, like he’s thinking about running his fingers up my thigh. For an instant, I’m so sure of his intent that I actually feel his fingers on my thigh.
My body trembles at the suggestion of being touched. My mouth goes dry, and I feel my heart speed up, whooshing blood up my neck. Now his beautiful, charming, devilish, cunning, sweet, salesman eyes are on my neck. I’m sure my pulse is visible, because I can feel my neck throbbing.
I bite my lower lip. Honestly, I’ve never once bitten my lower lip, except as a joke. After we watched Twilight, I did it a bunch of times, but only to make my sister and our friend Rory laugh.
Now I’m actually biting my lower lip. What does that even mean?
That scent. Citrus. Chocolate. Balls.
Drew turns his head, jerking his eyes away from my legs like he’s breaking a spell. “I really am sorry that I barged in on your group right when you were going to share something.” He gazes at the courtyard beyond the window.
“It was nothing. Just this dumb thing, with this dumb boy.”
He angles his body away, giving me some space, then flicks his eyes back to mine. “Tell me what happened, and I promise to listen without judgment. I won’t try to alter your experience.”
I narrow my eyes. “This isn’t your first therapy group.”
“I swear it is, but I’ve read the occasional self-help book.” He looks over at the others, who are still chattering, and getting up from their chairs to help themselves to the tea cakes and goat-ass coffee at the back table. “Dump it on me,” he says.
I choke up a little laugh. “Dump it on me,” I repeat. “If I ever become a counselor, that’s going to be my slogan. Dump it on me. I’ll put it on all my business cards.”
He chuckles as well, and damn it. His genuine laugh, plus his light GQ scent wafting into my nose, are combining to make me feel like a puddle of mega-giddy, super-girly, watch-Twilight-too-many-times goo.
His voice deep and GQ-sexy, he says, “If you had a problem with some dumb boy, I’m sure it was his problem, not yours. I think what you need is a real man, who can handle the truth.”
“Are you that man, Drew?” I hear the words I just said, and it strikes me as funny. Man, Drew. “Wait, that sounds like a new nickname. Man-Drew. Mandrew.”
“Are you hitting on me?” He bats his dark, GQ-thick eyelashes. “Tell me something, Meenie. Do you troll these self-help groups looking for guys with low self-esteem to add to your list of conquests?”
I give him an equally flirty eyelash flutter. “You got me. Guilty as charged.”
“Actually, Mandrew is our couple name. Meenie and Andrew. Mandrew. I work around a lot of women’s magazines, so I know about celebrity couple names.”
My eyelashes keep going. “Awesome. Let’s get married.”
He goes along with the joke. “How about next Tuesday? The group meets every Tuesday, right? You’ll have to make those cake things again. Sounds like they’re a hit.”
He’s right. It’s just the two of us sitting in the now-empty circle. Everyone else is at the snacks, hoovering down the tea cakes.
Even Feather is back in the room, though I didn’t hear her slip in. She’s loading a paper plate with sliced fruit and tea cakes. It’s not even nine o’clock, and tonight’s meeting has gone completely off the rails.
“Is it usually like this?” Drew asks.
“No, I don’t know what this is.” I give him a serious look. “But it’s all your fault, that’s for sure.”
“What were you going to tell everyone, right before I barged in with my giant balls and ruined everything?”
I draw a blank. A total blank. My mind is a sheaf of white paper, fresh from the stationery store.
“I don’t know,” I say slowly.
“You probably wanted to relive some painful experience. Something someone said or did, that sticks in your head. It’s locked into your experience. It defines you, this traumatic event. And now you blame every messed up thing in your life on that one event.”
I study his eyes, trying to figure out if he’s joking, or talking about himself. “Something like that.”
“People always want a reason. If a plane crashes in the ocean, they want to know why. They need to find out what bolt was loose, because if there was no bolt loose, that means the universe is nothing but chaos. If there’s no loose bolt or terrorist plot, then nothing means anything. There’s no story or narrative to bad things that happen. Things just happen. Everything decays.” He looks away from me, like he’s annoyed by me, or this group, or by all of humanity. “Only when we embrace our frailty are we free to...” He trails off, staring over at the group chatting by the food. His nostrils flare as he inhales. “Those cakes smell good.”
“You were saying? About frailty?”
He gets up and smooths down his impeccable suit. He straightens his orange tie, which no longer looks ridiculous to me because I’ve gotten used to it. I stare at the tie, my brain sputtering like a car with manual transmission, shifting gears at the hands of a student driver.
If the orange tie isn’t ridiculous now, was it ever? Is reality shifting right now? Am I in the Matrix?
“Let them eat cake,” Drew says matter-of-factly, like he’s answering the questions in my head. “Let us all eat cake.”
Then he walks away, leaving me alone with the echoes of his words. Nothing means anything. Things just happen. I’m falling down a philosophical rabbit hole, where there’s nothing but tiny tea cakes and mysterious vials that say Drink Me, I Promise I’m not Poison.
Well, hell.
I thought I liked Drew for a few minutes there, but deep, sensitive guys are always so dark and brooding, plus they put me in a weird head space.
I think I liked Drew better when I thought he was a seductive sex addict. At least those guys are fun.
I reach under my chair once more for my purse. It’s still not there, but five chairs over. Muttering under my breath, I crouch-walk forward and retrieve my purse.
Feather calls out, “Meenie, you’re not leaving, are you?”
I stand up straight, my purse on my shoulder. “I don’t know.”
/> “Come here,” she says, nodding with her head for me to join her and Drew, off to the side of the group.
I swallow hard and walk toward them. A guilty shame washes over me. I know this feeling well. This is me, being sent to the principal’s office for teasing boys and making them cry. I only took down the bullies who deserved it, but the principal never saw it that way. A bully who bullies other bullies is like a serial killer who… oh, never mind. Dexter wasn’t on the air yet, so I couldn’t have known about that comparison as a kid. But in my heart, I thought I was doing good.
“Sorry I ruined the group dynamic,” I say to Feather.
Her blue eyes widen with surprise. “On the contrary. I think we’re on the verge of a breakthrough, but I need to talk to you both about something delicate.”
Delicate?
I glance down at her stomach.
“Oh, no,” I gasp. “Feather are you okay? Is there someone we should call?”
She gives me a quick head shake. “It’s about you and Drew.”
“We’re called Mandrew,” he says. “That’s our couple name.”
Feather gives him a long look, then turns to me. “Drew has several layers, and he uses humor to disarm people and deflect attention from himself. I think you two can help each other a lot, but… here’s the delicate part. You can either date, or be in the same group. Not both. The others might enjoy the show you put on, but eventually they’ll stop coming. So, what’s it going to be? Dating, or group?”
I look up into Drew’s glinting brown eyes.
“Let’s answer on the count of three,” Drew says. “One. Two…”
My body says dating, but my mouth says, “Group.”
He says, “Dating.”
I shake my head. “I meant dating.”
“Actually, I meant to say group,” he says. “But then I thought about how it would affect your low self esteem, so I said dating at the last minute, but I didn’t mean it.”
“Fine,” I say coldly. “I wouldn’t date you anyway, because you’re not my type.”
“Come on. I’m everyone’s type.” He turns to Feather. “Right?”