The Three Kiss CLause

by Harlan, Christopher

  Right now, I don’t just want to get breakfast with him, I want to have him for breakfast.

  He sits across the table, pulling his shades off and squinting like I’m shining an interrogation light into his eyes. “You look exactly like you sounded on the phone last night.”

  He ignores my commentary and plops his shades down on the other side of the table. He smells about eighty proof, and he’s begging the universe for a shower. “Sorry about the call.” He tells me in his gruffest, hung over voice. “I was out late with my brothers and it got a little crazy, as it can with them.”

  “Out on the prowl I take it?”

  “Huh?” he asks. “The prowl?”

  “You know, out looking to pick up women?”

  “You really don’t know me at all if you’re asking that question. I’m not the picking up type—and last night was just catching up over some—actually, over way too many drinks.”

  Not the pick-up type? Yeah, right. You’re all the pick-up type. “So you don’t talk to women when you’re out?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I’m not. . . what did you call it? I’m not on the prowl. That sounds super predatory, by the way.”

  “Well, if the shoe fits.”

  He laughs. It looks painful for him to do but he gives me a genuine howl. “Trust me, it doesn’t fit. We were just being brothers. In fact, the only woman who came up last night was you.”

  “Me?” I’m shocked to hear him say that. What was he saying? Was he talking shit? Telling his brothers about this crazy chick who made their brother a proposition? Now I’m curious. “What about me?”

  “We’ll get to that. Right now, I need coffee and waffles.”

  “Waffles?” I ask. “That’s so specific.”

  “Well, I specifically need waffles, so it makes sense.”

  I smile. “Wait, not pancakes or French toast? Waffles?”

  “Pancakes and French toast can fuck off—they’re inferior tools for the job at hand.”

  “Which is?”

  “The delivery of syrup and butter to my mouth. Only waffles can do that right, so I need some, asap.”

  He’s funny. I fight smiling too hard because I want to keep the upper hand in our little Cold War—but the more he talks, the less he seems like that dickish guy at my pitch meeting and the more like someone who interests me. But I still have to remind myself of who and what he is.

  This is just for my book, nothing else. Right?

  “Excuse me.” He waves at the waitress with this pained look on his face. She comes over looking frantic.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you our waitress?” he asks.

  “I can be. I’m sorry, I have a bunch of tables. I was about to come over.”

  “No apologies. You’re working harder than either of us are, trust me. I just need to get waffles into my stomach to soak up the remaining alcohol and stomach acid, and you’re the only person who can make that happen.”

  He flashes a smile to her and she practically melts.

  “I’ll see what I can do, okay?”

  “You’re the best!”

  “Oh,” she says, finally realizing that I exist. “I’m so sorry, and for you?”

  “I’m good for right now, thanks.”

  “Okay, sorry about that. I’ll get those waffles as fast as I can.”

  “And a cup of coffee when you have a chance—a big one!”

  “You got it.”

  As soon as she’s gone, he turns the charm right back off, and goes back to being the good-looking hung-over guy. This time I laugh. “What the hell was that?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, come on. Giving that waitress those eyes so you can get your waffles quicker.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I just asked her politely and she agreed.”

  “Sure, okay. That’s definitely what happened.”

  “Why don’t we just get back to business at hand?” he asks. That sounds perfect to me.

  “Fine. So, back to this me coming up at the bar last night? Tell me more. I assume it was about our potential arrangement?”

  He runs his hands through his hair, and it’s the sexist thing ever. I don’t know why, but at the office he seemed buttoned up and self-righteous. I mean, he’s still those things, but the sight of him with messy hair, a tee shirt, and a little vulnerability is something different. “It came up, I’m not going to lie.”

  Is it weird that I want to know everything he said about me? “And?” I ask, trying not to sound too desperate. “What did you say?”

  “You didn’t even ask me how many brothers I had.”

  “Oh,” I say, a little thrown off. “Did you want me to?”

  “Only if you’re interested.”

  I’ll bite. “How many brothers do you have, Cormac?”

  “I’m the oldest of three.” Then he leans in—really leans in, and for a second, I swear he’s going to reach across and kiss me, but then I remember I’m fantasizing about a guy I’m supposed to hate. “There’s a year between me and my younger brother, Aidan, and three years between me and my youngest brother, Conor. Aidan is an electrical engineer and Conor has a degree in sports medicine. He works with a lot of pro athletes. We all live in the city.”

  “Three brothers all living in the same city—you guys are lucky.”

  “It just worked out that way. Conor travels a lot and we all have busy lives, so the three of us don’t always get a chance to hang out like we did last night. But I can see from your face what you really want to know is what I said about you.”

  “Is it that obvious?” I ask.

  “It’s natural. Nothing bad, per say, I was just telling them about our little. . . what would you call it?”

  “I’d call it nothing until you actually agree to do it. But if you need a name let’s call it an experiment.”

  “I didn’t say no. That’s a start.”

  “I’ll take it. So what did your brothers think?”

  “They had some interesting ideas about the whole thing.”

  I don’t think I like the word ‘interesting’ in that sentence, but I have to hear him out. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  “I was thinking about what they said, and they had some good points. Like, for example, what do I get out of this whole thing?”

  “What do you get?” Shit, he finally realized—or his clearly much smarter brothers did—that there’s really nothing in this for him. I’m going to make him spell it out before I give him anything.

  “Well, the way I see it, you stand to gain a lot more than me in this situation, don’t you agree?”

  Of course I do, but I’m not gonna tell you that just yet. “I guess. How do you mean?”

  “You could convince me to give you a book deal, but what do I get out of the whole thing? Especially with the. . . how should I say this? The limitations you put on the arrangements.”

  There it is. “Limitations? You mean me not trading my body for a book deal? I think that’s a pretty fair demand.”

  “I don’t want you to trade your body for a book deal, I already told you that. But at the same time—if it were organic, why put limits on ourselves?”

  “Organic?” I ask.

  “Yeah, like what if you actually liked me and didn’t want to hold my hand or kiss me just for appearances? What if you were feeling me?” I’m feeling sick is what I’m feeling. The ego on this guy could fill this room. I don’t mean to, but I giggle “What’s funny?”

  “You really do think you’re God’s gift, don’t you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “First the googly eyes at the waitress, then suggesting that I’m going to be ‘feeling you.’ I think you might already be in a committed relationship with your mirror.”

  I get a smile for that one. “I promise you, I’m not. But I do think if we’re going to do this, then we need to make some modifications.”

  I don’t like the sound of this at all. “Modifications,
huh?” And I bet I know what those modifications are going to be.

  “I think It’s only fair.”

  “So let’s do it this way. You list the modifications you’re talking about and we’ll go through them, one by one.” I feel sick to my stomach. I think I know what he’s going to say even before he says it.

  “So don’t flip out when I say this, okay?”

  “Of course not.” I tell him. That might be the worst way to start a sentence, ever.

  “I wanted to address this whole nothing physical thing, but not in the way you think.”

  “Okay,” I say with as much hesitance as I can muster. “So, like what, then?”

  “How about hand holding?”

  What? “Hand holding?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I like hand holding.” You’re a complicated one, Cormac. I think about it for a second—it’s not a huge ask, and honestly the idea of him touching me is kind of exciting, but I answer him by making a face like I just ate half a raw lemon with some raw garlic sprinkled on top. “I guess that’s not sooo bad. If we’re in public, that is, and you want to, go for it. I won’t pull away.”

  “Is that supposed to flatter me?” he asks.

  “Take what you can get, champ. This is a negotiation, right? Neither of us is just going to give in, are we?” He shakes his head. “Right, so be happy that you get to touch my hand.”

  “It’ll be the greatest honor of my life, I’m sure. Let’s step it up, now. How about kissing?”

  Here we go again. “Absolutely not.” I swear I’m protesting the hardest for the things I secretly want the most.

  “You can take a second to consider it before shooting me down, you know? Fake it at least.”

  “Do you like when women fake it with you?”

  “I don’t know, it’s never been an issue for me.” His smug smile lets me know it’s definitely been an issue for him before, he just doesn’t know it. Every man thinks they can make a girl come. I had a whole podcast on this once with some other famous female YouTubers.

  “That’s probably not the case, just so you know.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’d be surprised how many women can’t have an orgasm, it’s a huge problem. One of my most popular vlogs was about that. Most men think they can bring a girl to orgasm, but most of the time she’s faking it.”

  He looks like I just rocked his whole world. “No way.”

  “Way. Trust me.”

  “Like, for you too?”

  Holy shit, he just got super personal! “We’re not discussing my orgasms, Cormac. Sorry.”

  “Understood.”

  Just then, when I’m about to turn red out of embarrassment that I’ve never actually had an orgasm, Cormac’s number one fan brings him his waffles and coffee.

  “Thank you so much. . .”

  “Debrah.”

  “Debrah,” he repeats. His voice and face change again, and it makes me want to vomit.

  “It was no problem at all.”

  Just as she’s about to walk away and I’m about to hurl last night’s dinner at how cute Cormac thinks he is, he reaches out and touches her arm. “Deborah, would you mind settling an argument between me and my friend here? It won’t take long, I promise, I know you’re busy.”

  “Sure,” she says. “No problem. What’s the argument?”

  “My friend Tori, here, says that most women have never had a real orgasm in their life, and I said that wasn’t true. She even spoke about it on some YouTube video she did, but I call bullshit. As a woman, which one of us is right?”

  At first, I can’t believe this guy has the audacity to ask some random woman he barely knows about their feelings on orgasms. Actually, including me, that makes two women he barely knows. I’m about to jump in and tell this poor girl she doesn’t have to answer him, but then I see her expression when she gets a better look at me. I’m used to that look by now, but I never expect it.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  Cormac looks so confused when she says that. He doesn’t realize what’s happening, and I’m afraid it’s going to break his fragile little ego.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “What’s going on?” He looks so very confused.

  “You’re Tori! Oh, sweet Jesus, I’m a Tor-Men-Tor!”

  She leans over and gives me the biggest and most enthusiastic hug ever. She’s squeaky and animated, and people start looking over at us. I love every second of it. I never get used to being recognized.

  “It’s really nice to meet you.”

  “Oh my God,” Cormac says. “She knows you from. . .”

  “Are you kidding?” Deborah yells. “I subscribe to her, like. . . everything! Her blog, her vlog, her podcast is like a must-listen every week on my way to work.”

  Cormac looks more pained than he did when he first walked in. I’m soaking it all up. “Well, isn’t that. . . interesting.”

  “And just so you know—Cormac, is it?” He nods. “Clearly you didn’t listen to The Big O.”

  “I hate to even ask, but. . .”

  “It’s the title of that vlog I was telling you about.” I look back at Deborah. “My friend here isn’t familiar with the online version of myself.”

  She turns to him, and her expression is literally priceless. “This is Tori Klein. She’s like, one of the fastest growing YouTube feminist influencers there is. Her podcast is, like, everything.” She turns back to me. “I seriously love everything you do. #slavestotheirdicks.” Cormac looks like he’s about to spit when she lets my hashtag fly, but he seems genuinely interested.

  “Can I ask you a question I think I already know the answer to?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would you also buy a book that Tori wrote about. . .”

  “Oh my God, yes!”

  “Wait, I didn’t finish my sentence.”

  “It doesn’t matter what the end of that sentence is. This woman has inspired me to take control of my life and know my worth. I’d buy a copy of her laundry list if she published it.”

  I don’t usually gloat, but my eyes are telling Cormac I told you so since my mouth can’t do it right now.

  “Thanks for your feedback, Deborah. And for the fast waffles.”

  “You got it. And the pleasure was all mine. I love you.”

  I stand up and give her a big hug. “Love you too. Fans like you inspire me.”

  “You’re so sweet. I know you’re having breakfast, but before you leave can I get a picture with you? Otherwise my friends will never believe this. We all love you.”

  “Awww, well tell them hi for me, and it’d be my honor to take a pic later—as long as you promise to tag me.”

  “Of course! I promise. #tormentorarmy.”

  She walks back to her other tables. I’m pretty sure I just gained the upper hand in our little negotiation.

  “Does that happen to you a lot?” he asks.

  “Not a lot,” I answer. “But often enough. Don’t let your waffles get cold, that would be a shame after all the politicking you did to get them.”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  And he wasn’t kidding about drenching them in butter and syrup. He goes through his ritual and I just sit there, waiting for him to finish telling me what exactly he’s trying to change about our arrangement. After a syrup-soaked bite he finally speaks.

  “Let’s talk about the kissing thing.”

  “Is it a thing?” I ask.

  “What I want to know is, what happens if you actually feel like kissing me? Which you might, by the way. Just putting it out there.”

  “Oh really?” I ask, shocked by how arrogant this guy is. “Cocky much?”

  “I’m not cocky. Far from it. Cocky is believing that you have some kind of abilities that you don’t have—and so far in my life, I’ve had no problem convincing women to kiss me. . . Or anything else for that matter.”

  “FuckBoy.”

  “What did you say?” he asks.

&nb
sp; That literally came out of nowhere. It wasn’t even a thought—it was a reaction, like when the doctor hits you on the leg and you kick up.

  “Nothing. I was just thinking about my book.” That was a totally unconvincing lie. I need to change the subject back to what we were talking about. “So before we go on, where is all this coming from? Your brothers?”

  “I just think that we need some kind of contract.”

  “A contract? Like, you wanna consult an attorney?” I laugh because the image of that is pretty funny. I imagine the two of us sitting in a lawyer’s office trying to decide on how many hand-holds per week he gets.

  “Nothing official like that—just a more formal agreement before we go into this, so we both know what the other is expecting.”

  “I’m not expecting anything but what I said. But I’m guessing that you are. So tell me. Spit it out already.” I reach into my bag to grab a pen and the notepad I usually keep to jot down ideas whenever I’m out, but I can’t find the notepad. I must have left it on my nightstand. “Shit.”

  “What?” he asks.

  “I need something to write on.”

  “Just use the notes app on your phone.”

  “I prefer actual writing. I’m weird like that.”

  “I’m shocked.”

  “Shut up. I need something.”

  “Here,” he says, sliding a napkin across the table. “Write it on this.”

  “Alright.” I test my pen on the napkin and it comes out fine. “So, what do you want?”

  That’s when he says it, as though he’s known the entire time what he wanted to ask. “Three kisses,” he says. “I want three kisses.”

  “Huh?” I ask, not believing my ears.

  “I get to kiss you—or you get to kiss me, three times over the course of this little experiment. They can be short or long, whatever you feel like. They can be for show in front of friends and family, I don’t really care. But I want three kisses from you over the four weeks.”

  “Wait, wait,” I say, putting my pen down. “Let’s put aside the request itself. Where did you get the number three from?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s a satisfying number. Like a genie that grants three wishes. I want three kisses. It just seems like a reasonable number to me. Not too many or too few.”

  “So it’s like Goldilocks? Just the right amount of kisses.”