by S. L. Scott
I don’t turn around. I don’t let her off. I just take the glass and finish the liquor. When I set it down on the counter, I close my eyes, and drop my head. “When are you going to see, Virginia?” Disappointment, heartbreak, and resolve fill my tone, and I say, “This won’t be pretty.”
“What?” There’s a tremble to her tone that makes me hate myself for causing it.
“Us.” I stand there, before her, hope gone. “There’s only one way for this to end and it’s badly.
One step.
Two more.
She stops, afraid to come closer.
Afraid of me?
She swallows hard enough for me to hear. “It doesn’t have to.”
“But it will. Are you ready to take the fall? Cuz there’s no going up, sweetheart. It’s downhill from here.”
“We can keep things light. Fun—”
“And games.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You didn’t have to. What do you want from me?”
“I want your friendship. I want your—”
“And what?” I ask, leaning on the counter and crossing my arms over my chest. My feelings may be hurt, but I’m in no hurry to leave them bleeding at her feet in the Financial District. “Just say it. Friendship and what?”
“Support.”
Friend-zoned. Just like that I’ve been taken out of the running. “And there it is.” A smirk comes out, but it’s more one of disbelief than anything else. “Let me ask you something. How’d you get Lowry to come to The Hideaway that night? For real.”
She shifts on her feet, the red dress loose in the front from hanging open in the back. “I talked one of the receptionists he’s always hitting on into going out. She suggested The Hideaway. Katie had been trying to get me to go there for months. So I casually on purpose made sure Lowry knew we’d be there that night and he told me to text him the address.”
“You walked in alone. What happened to the other woman?”
“Her married boyfriend called. When he calls that means he’s free from his wife and kids, so she has to be ready to meet him on a moment’s notice.” The image of my boss’s ex-wife crying in Saks Fifth Avenue instantly comes to mind. She continues, “I didn’t bother to text Lowry that she had cancelled.”
“He was possessive of you.”
“He feels very protective of the women in the office even if he has no interest in us.”
“When you left with him, did he think you were going home with him?”
“Yes.” She comes closer and leans her hip against the counter next to me. “He touched me on the leg in the car and tried to kiss me.”
“That’s what you wanted.”
“I don’t want it in the back of a car where he gets off then gets out and leaves me riding home alone.”
“What do you expect from him? What do you want?”
“I want love, Hardy.”
“You’re looking in the wrong place then, sweetheart. I know that asshole. I used to be that asshole. So when I say we are going to end badly—you and I, you and this Lowry dude are going to be disastrous.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I’m not going to lie to you anymore. I can’t protect you from self-destructing, but I will tell you what I’m going to do for you.”
“What is that?”
“I’m going to stay. I’m going to give you the friendship and support you want from me.”
“Why?”
“Because when he fucks you on New Year’s and then he’s flirting with the receptionist the next day, you’re going to need a friend.” I take her hand and hold it between us. “I’ll be that friend for you.”
Tears fill her eyes and she falls into my arms. I wrap them around her and kiss the top of her head. The pain I feel now won’t compare to the pain I know she’s going to experience with that asshole. Like how I knew she needed to feel bad for hurting me, she needs to go through with her plan so she will eventually see she had me all along.
Chapter Seventeen
Virginia and I have come to an understanding. Or should I say, I’ve come to my senses. No more visits to the hipster. I was right all along. Love blinds you to reality. I’ve taken off my rose-colored glasses. I might have actually stomped them into smithereens before I climbed into bed with her.
Before you say, “But Hardy, she shot you down,” let me explain. When I decided to stay and support our friendship, I meant it. Maybe it’s the ridiculous notion of it’s better to have whatever I can versus nothing at all if I’d walked out that door. Or maybe despite the bullshit I spew, an inkling, or better yet, smaller than an inkling whatever that is, of hope still exists. A lot like that seed that was planted when I met her it’s there still, rolling around in the dirt that is self-respect. I can feel it like the princess felt the pea, but since it’s me, it’s more like the king and his . . . whatever. You get the drift.
So here I am, lying next to her, watching a romantic comedy that I don’t think is funny at all. That might be because Virginia’s and my relationship resembles the mess I’m watching a little too closely. “Ultimately, she’s still cheating,” I say, pointing at the screen like Meg Ryan will stop her nonsense and break up with her boyfriend before pursuing Tom Hanks. “Oh, her last name is Ryan, like you.”
“We’re not related.”
“Too bad.”
“I know. I could use a vacation to LA about now.” She lifts her head, and asks, “Are you hungry?”
“I can eat.”
Using my chest as leverage, she lifts up and shoots an eyebrow up in amusement. “You did earlier—twice. Once at Kate & Theo and then me.”
“Did you set me up for that lame joke?”
“No.” She laughs. “I’m actually hungry. The food was good but the portions were tiny. Want to go out and get something to eat?”
“You do realize it’s almost midnight, right?”
“Come on. Where’s your sense of adventure, Hardy?”
“Back in Brooklyn where I know I can get a great sandwich in the middle of the night at the local deli.”
“Well I can beat it.”
“Wanna bet?”
“I’ll bet you the food.”
“You’re on.” We flip our feet to the floor and start pulling on our clothes and shoes again. I peek over at her on the other side of the bed. She was lounging in sweatpants and a The Resistance T-shirt she got from their tour a few months back. I flicked the pic of the lead singer that covers the front when she talked about how hot he was live and she felt like he was singing just for her. I rolled my eyes and flicked her again before realizing I had actually flicked her nipple. After she said, “Ouch,” and rubbed it, she admitted it felt pretty good.
That was a happy side effect that I’d love to explore more with her sometime, but since our earlier talk, I need to back off. I also need to be careful or she’ll have me face over fist in deep shit feels for her all over again. So naturally I immediately accepted her invitation to watch the movie with her in bed. That’s where she has her DVD player plugged in. I didn’t even know they still made DVD players. Don’t we just download movies these days?
Guess not.
She pauses the movie and stands up. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be. Where are you taking me?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
She’s so happy that I don’t want to burst her bubble by telling her I really should be going home. I don’t want to burst my happy bubble either. That seed is sprouting from hope to fate, and I believe wholeheartedly in destiny. It’s what I’ve used to guide my own life. Maybe I need to trust in it when it comes to my love life.
The doorman is surprised to see use when we exit the building. As if we’re a couple, Virginia’s arm slides around mine and our fingers weave together and we hold hands. “Your hands are fucking freezing,” I say, surprised her hands feel colder than a witch’s tit.
“Sorry,” she says li
ke she’s not really that sorry. “You’re so warm. God, I need your hands warming my body.”
Big Richard stirs. “Please don’t say things like that. We may have gotten off but I haven’t had sex since I met you and words like warm and hands on your body kind of remind my dick that he’s not slipped into a woman’s sleeping bag in a while.”
“Ewwww. A woman’s sleeping bag? Gross.”
“I was trying to be polite. Would you rather me say pussy? Because I have no problem saying pussy.”
“Apparently, and you just did twice. Also, you sure didn’t mind saying it earlier.”
“Earlier I was eating your pussy. We were in the moment. Now we’re walking down the street, to who knows where in the world, holding hands.”
“Was that you romancing me, Hardy?”
“Nope. But if I was, would it be working?”
“Totally.” She leans her head on my shoulder, and squeezes my hand tighter. “Sleeping bags are cozy and comfy and warm, like sweatpants. And you know I like those.”
“See, I’m playing to my audience.”
“You’re generous like that, and you’re warming my hands up.”
Warming cold hands. Gloves are great for that. “Oh, I almost forgot.” I reach inside my coat pocket and pull out the gloves. “I got you these.”
Her feet come to a sudden halt and she takes the gloves from me. “You bought me gloves?”
“Yeah, earlier tonight.”
“You bought me gloves earlier tonight from Bendel’s?”
“I did.” I reach over and touch them again. “They’re cashmere.”
“Hardy, I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. Just wear them.”
She pulls them off the hanger and slides her hands into them. “Oh my God. These are heaven. Heaven, I tell you.” Her body is clinging to mine, her arms wrapped around my neck cutting off my airway. “This is one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received.”
I loosen the noose of her arms, and cough. “They’re only gloves, V.”“You don’t understand. I was shopping today and every store was sold out. I was so disappointed, but here you are taking me to dinner at an impossible to get a reservation restaurant and pulling gloves from your pocket like they magically appeared after a wish. I don’t know where you came from, Hardy Richard, but I’m so fortunate to have you in my life. Thank you for the gloves. I love them.”
“You’re very welcome.”
She kisses my cheek and then takes my hand again. This time her hand is fuzzy and warm. Similar to my feelings right now.
Excitedly, she points, and announces, “There.”
“A hotdog stand?” I’m not disappointed but I am surprised. “I wasn’t filling enough?”
I’m elbowed. “You were too filling. As for food, let’s eat.”
Five minutes later, I’m standing on the corner of a Manhattan street holding the cart owner’s last two dogs while she carefully pulls the gloves off her hands and tucks them in her pockets.
Two minutes after that, she’s tossed the napkins and devoured the hot dog and she’s putting the gloves on like they are gold rings. I almost expect her to call them her precious. Freaky bastard.
We walk faster this time, both of us cold. Before we reach the building, she asks, “Will you stay?”
No build up or word foreplay. She just throws it out there like the opening pitch at the start of baseball season, and I catch it. Yes. Yes. Yes. “Sure,” I reply casually with a shrug, pretending I could take the offer or leave it.
What? Did you expect me to say no because of earlier? I’m a guy. We get over shit quick. Feelings are handled by hiding or ignoring them completely. If an emotion decides to hang around too long it basically becomes a round of hide the sausage. You know, tuck it here. Tuck it there. Tuck it anywhere you can shove it. Preferably into a warm, wet—the door to her building is opened.
The doorman is onto us. I’m sure he has a second sense for couples getting it on. He’s looking me over like an overprotective older brother, which thank God, she doesn’t have. Brothers can be real dicks to deal with when it comes to dating their sisters. Especially if said sister, after she begs you to hide said earlier sausage inside her, has an overly steroided brother bust into her room and start a fight while yelling, “Mine” and “Hands off my girl.” And the classic, “I will kill you.”
Then, as you’re running out the door with your frank n’ beans covered, you see them making up with a kiss. Yeah, now that’s a horrifying sight that stays with you long after you find out they’re stepsiblings, and they just met two years earlier. They’re still fucking. Christmas at their house must be very entertaining.
I’ve just heard of this kind of thing happening. It’s never happened to me. Nope . . . Not to me. But I digress . . .
I nod as we pass by and go back upstairs. In the elevator, we’re quiet. It’s late. We’re tired, and probably have too much on our minds. Things have really changed the last couple of weeks, and I never saw it coming. Even my initial blindside has been blindsided. I sneak a glimpse of her just as she’s sneaking one of me. What must she think of me? What goes on inside that pretty head of hers? I sometimes wonder if she feels the same about me as I do her. Communicating those feelings could probably set things straight, but what’s the fun in that? Aren’t our twenties about fumbling around trying to find ourselves, and hoping love finds us along the way? Fuck, who knows? I sure don’t. Anyway, she’s made her choice more than clear.
Lowry on New Year’s Eve. The plan is already in motion in her head. The asshole wins. He gets the girl, her midnight kiss, and being seduced at the Waldorf-Astoria.
Check. Check. And double check. Game. Set. Match.
Fuck my love life.
I was doing just fine before that four-letter word wasn’t around cock-blocking me to the pretties at the bar, and overcomplicating my life in general. If she wants him, she can have him. As for me, it’s all systems go and moving forward with the plan in place. Its not like I have any right to gripe about her sleeping with someone else. She’s single, and we’re not a couple.
Fuck. I can’t even believe I let the C-word slip from my mouth. Like the hipster warned, I need to watch my language.
When we enter the apartment, I help her with her coat and hang it on the hook. She takes her gloves off, and says, “Thank you again for these.”
“You’re welcome.” Silence starts to extend the distance that stands between us as I take my coat off and hang it up.
“Glass of water?” she asks from the kitchen.
“Sure.”
She comes back into the living room and hands me a tall glass. “Thank you for staying. I know . . . well, just know I want you here, Hardy.”
For some reason, my damn heart refuses to leave my sleeve. “I want to be here with you.”
Taking my hand, we walk into the bedroom together. She goes to the left side of the bed and sets her water on the nightstand, so I walk to the right side, setting mine down. “Guess you sleep on the left. Good thing because I sleep on the right.”
“It’s like we’re made for each other.” With that left behind lingering in the air around me, she goes into the bathroom and shuts the door.
I think I stare at that door for a good three minutes, maybe longer, her words replaying through my head. By the time I settle on the fact that she might have just admitted that she’s actually attracted to me I’ve already hashtagged that sucker and pocketed it for later in my notes app. Seems maybe my feelings aren’t as unwarranted as I once thought. Maybe. Just maybe we are made for each other.
#MFEO
Chapter Eighteen
I stand there like a goof, not sure what I’m supposed to be doing, so I undress like I was earlier, down to my boxer briefs and socks because my feet are cold. We change places—she crawls under the covers in her sweatpants and Resistance T-shirt and I go to the bathroom. Before the door closes, she says, “I set out a toothbrush fo
r you.”
“Thanks.”
The blue brush is fully loaded with striped paste, so I wet it and go to town. I can only imagine how my breath is after shoving a wiener down my throat. Wait, what? Hot dog. Dirty birds.
While I scrub my pearly whites, I do what any guest would do—dig through the medicine cabinet and the one under the sink. There’s nothing too interesting other than everything. It’s like a mecca for nosy people who like to go the extra mile and snoop through people’s stuff. Cough drops, Vick’s VapoRub, Advil, Emergen-C packets, toothbrush and paste, an out of date prescription for Amoxicillin, tampons, and what do we have here—a box of extra large condoms in ribbed for her pleasure vanilla flavored. Damn, that’s got a lot going on. Whatever happened to it being used for protection? I like that she’s prepared. I now must torture-tease her about it.
I spit, rinse, and wrap up my business before taking the black box with neon yellow writing to bed with me. The overhead light is off and the room is dim except for the lamp on her nightstand. I climb under the fluffy blanket and toss the box on the bed between us.
Virginia’s gaze lands on it and her eyebrows shoot up. So to push this a bit further than I should for entertainment purposes only, I ask, “Do you have a vibrator?”
“Hardy,” she cautions, warning, or more like wanting, to end this already.
“Do you?”
She grabs her pillow and drags it flat down and flops back, then pulls the awesomely soft blanket over her head. “Yes.”
“Show me.”
The blanket is flapped down with authority. “No.”
“Yes.” I move down and rest on my elbow.
“No.” The firmness of her tone seconds earlier is teetering on giving in.
Reaching over, I rub my hand over her stomach. And even though I’m damn jealous that rock band gets to hang out on her chest, I get the pleasure of sliding it up and getting the real thing. I lean down and kiss her stomach while dipping my fingertips under the waistband of her sweatpants. “I want to watch you pleasure yourself.”