The Three Kiss CLause

by Harlan, Christopher

  “Really?”

  “Why do you sound so shocked?”

  “I don’t know. Something about what you just said struck me as shocking.”

  “Because you think all men cheat, right? We all chase women around like we’re hunters and they’re prey? Something like that?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Don’t feel bad—in some cases you’re right, but in other cases—like my case—you’re not. I’ve known a lot of guys, from high school to today, who’ve cheated on the women—or men—that they’re in relationships with. Some of those dudes even brag about cheating to their friends. One guy in college told me ‘if you’re not cheating, you’re not trying.’ I think it’s disgusting.”

  “Ewww.”

  “I agree. You can’t conflate guys wanting to have sex a lot with guys being automatic cheaters—there’s some cross over there, but they’re different behaviors.”

  “What makes you so different then? How do you fly on the side of the relationship angels when guys around you are bragging about cheating on their significant other?”

  “I have no idea. The way I was raised? Seeing guy friends lose amazing girls because they couldn’t keep their dicks in their pants? All of the above? Who knows, who cares? It’s just the way I am. I love women, I love having sex with women, but I’m not a piece of shit just because I have a penis. There are good men out there, Tori, and they don’t always look like what you think they look like. Sometimes they look like me.”

  “I guess it was how you were raised.”

  “It is,” I tell her. “One hundred percent. My mom is the strongest person I’ve ever met. She had to be with the piece of shit sperm donor of a father I had. He left my mom with three little boys when I was seven.”

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “It’s okay. I only vaguely remember him at this point. I know what he looks like from pictures, but I have no strong memories of doing anything with him. My younger brothers don’t remember him at all. He just up and left one day. When I got older my mom told me that he started another family in California. So I probably have a bunch of half siblings running around the west coast somewhere.”

  “So your mom raised three boys on her own? No step father or anything?”

  “She got remarried when I was a junior in high school to really nice guy, but by that point most of the raising was done. She worked two jobs at crazy hours so she could have money for the things we needed and be there for us to spend time. She’s the most amazing person I’ve ever met, but she had to be tough so that we stayed in line—thus the smacking upside the head part.”

  “I didn’t realize. . .”

  “What? That I was raised by a woman, and to respect women? I’m full of surprises, Tori. I’m not what you assume I am.”

  “Interesting,” she says.

  “What’s even more interesting is that you didn’t really answer me before. When was the last time you were on a real date?”

  “And by ‘real’ you mean?”

  “Don’t do the debate club thing on me—let’s be real with one another. You know what I mean—a date. Like this. Where a guy asked you out, paid for dinner or some other activity, all that. Maybe you kissed him at the end of it, maybe you didn’t. When’s the last time that happened?”

  “That’s an easy one. I just honestly didn’t want to say the answer before ‘cause I know you’ll make fun of me.”

  “I promise you I won’t.”

  “College.”

  I’m not believing my ears. “No fucking way.”

  “Yes, fucking way. Well, actually, maybe there was one after my undergrad. Oh yeah!” she says, remembering. “There was that guy Thad, but he was an asshole. I didn’t like him at all. I forgot about him—tried to take me roller skating of all things. It was weird and awkward.”

  “Well his name was Thad—that should have been your first clue.” She laughs. “But seriously, college? Why do I find that hard to believe?”

  “I don’t know, you tell me.”

  “Because you’re hot, Tori. Do you know that? Like, really know it?” Let’s add that she’s not used to getting compliments to the growing list of things I can tell no guy—or very few—have done for her. Everything I do that most women like, she reacts to in the weirdest way. I tell her she’s hot and she looks like I just tried to give her a wet willy.

  “I don’t know how to answer that. I know guys have said that to me, but I don’t like to look at myself like that.”

  “How come? You’re beautiful. There’s nothing wrong with admitting that, is there?”

  “No,” she says. “I just always wanted to be more than that, you know? Not just another pretty girl. You probably wouldn’t understand, you’re a guy.”

  “Hey,” I say, reaching across the table and taking her hand. “Anyone who thinks that you’re just another pretty face is an asshole. Look, did I think you were hot the second I saw you? Yes. And did I like your book?”

  “I think we both know the answer to that one.”

  “Regardless, I have respect for you. I don’t think you’re just some pretty girl with a bad book, not anymore.”

  She looks at me really closely. I can tell her guard is still up—something tells me it’s always a little bit up. “Really? You respect me?”

  “Like I said, I think it’s really attractive when a woman knows what she wants and has the courage to pursue it, no matter what obstacles she faces along the way. There’s nothing sexier than that, and there’s nothing I respect more.”

  “Thank you, Cormac. That means a lot.”

  My hand is still over hers. As we talk, they start to move together so that we’re almost holding hands, and when I feel her fingertips on the base of my palm my whole body gets electrified. It surprises me because it’s just a touch—a simple feeling of skin on skin, but from her it means something more.

  “You’re welcome. I have a crazy idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How about we order actual food and talk about stuff that doesn’t touch deep into the recesses of our personal psychology? I know it sounds crazy, but when has that stopped us before?”

  She smiles. “I love that idea. And I’m starving!”

  “Good. Then let’s order.”

  Tori

  I’m a sucker for some good, crispy calamari and eggplant parm.

  I’m really enjoying being out with him—and being out, in general. I can’t tell if he’s genuine, or doing it as part of the experiment, but Cormac really seems to want to know me. The real me. I’m not used to how that feels, and it’s making me look at him in a whole new light. I hope I’m not just being played because he wants something from me.

  “Wait, you and Shoshana do what?”

  I tell him about our little game. “Shoshana and I have always been obsessed with everything 90’s and early 2000’s—music, movies, all of it.”

  “Slow down,” he says, taking a sip of his wine. “That’s a long time period you just crossed. Now, are we talking Nirvana or N’Sync?”

  “Do I look like an N’Sync girl? I mean, Shoshana dragged me to one of their shows once.”

  “Dragged you?” He’s giving me the skeptical eyes. I think he sees right through me.

  “Okay, maybe ‘dragged’ is a little aggressive. I mean, they were really good dancers, and the music was catchy.”

  “Date over. Actually, scratch that, experiment over. I can’t be with someone who bumped to ‘Bye Bye Bye’ back when Justin Timberlake had that bright yellow Eminem hair.”

  “Oh, I loved me some Eminem back in the day. He was sexy. I guess he still is, but I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “I think he had a drug thing. His hair is brown now, it’s not the same.”

  “I loved Nirvana, too. Rest in peace Kurt. I’m guessing you were more of a rock guy?”

  “I’ll level with you,” he says. I like when he smiles, it makes his face even better looking than it
already is. He’s looking good tonight in this lighting. “Was ‘I Want it That Way’ a damn fine pop song? Sure. Did I download the single? Maybe. But if we’re talking full album downloads, we’re going with anything Nirvana, Green Day, Pearl Jam, Alice In Chains, Smashing Pumpkins—those are my bands.”

  “I can see you as a Pumpkins guy. You have a little darkness to you.”

  He smiles again. “In high school, especially. I went through this emo rock phase where I wanted to be Billie Corgan. I wore his black “Zero” shirt and wrote shitty poetry that I thought was going to be hit songs one day. I even tried to start a band, it was a disaster.”

  “Wait,” I say laughing. “You were in a band? I can’t see it.”

  “Oh yeah. I play guitar—badly—so I figured all I needed was a drummer and a bassist and we’d be on the radio in no time. But all we ended up doing was smoking a lot of weed and listening to existing bands. We never really wrote much now that I think about it. I wonder why we didn’t get picked up by a music company?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That’s the mystery of the ages right there.”

  “I know, right!”

  “Is that where it started?” I ask.

  “Is that where what started?”

  “Your writing. You said when we first moved into Cynthia’s place that you were working on a book. Did you always want to be an author?”

  “Kind of,” he tells me. “I mean, I don’t think I ever used that word when I thought of myself, but I always wanted to be a writer, if that makes sense.”

  “It makes total sense.”

  The waiter brings our food over, and the smell is overwhelming. We eat and talk, and as we do I forget that this is an experiment. Right now, we’re just two people—a man and a woman—enjoying a meal together. I haven’t wanted to escape, or be mean to him, or defend my book at all. I’ve just been having a good time, and it feels great.

  “That was delicious,” he says after the meal winds down.

  “It was.” The waiter takes my plates and asks if we’d like to see a dessert menu.

  “Of course we would!” he says enthusiastically.

  “Very well, sir,” the waiter says. “I’ll be right back.”

  I lean towards him. “I saw that chocolate cake on the other table over there and it looked so yummy!”

  “Get it,” he tells me. “Get two. One to stay and one for later when you get a late-night craving.”

  “You must want me to gain twenty pounds. Then what would you think of me?”

  “I wouldn’t care at all.”

  I give him the head tilt and the eyebrow raise. “Bullshit,” I say. “If I gained twenty pounds, you’re telling me that you’d still want to do this experiment with me? That you’d be asking about kissing me, and sleeping with me? There’s no way.”

  “Why are you saying that?”

  “Because men don’t like women who aren’t thin. We live in the same society, right? Don’t tell me all of your girlfriends have been thick or heavy.”

  “Wow,” he says, looking offended. It takes me by surprise.

  “Wow what?”

  “You know, we’re here, having what I think is a good time, and then you say something like that.”

  He looks genuinely upset. Usually when we banter it’s just that, but it looks like I touched a nerve when I said that and I’m not sure why.

  “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean. . .”

  “Yes, you did. You always mean what you say, Tori. Who the hell hurt you so bad?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That has to be the only explanation. Nothing else makes sense. I’ve thought about it a lot.”

  “Thought about what, exactly?”

  “The fact that you have such extreme views on all men. That has to come from somewhere. Because you’re too smart and too cool when it comes to everything else—but on this subject you think. . . simplistically. What the hell happened that made you form these opinions?”

  The waiter comes back, holding the small dessert menu in his hands. He places one in front of each of us. “I’ll be back in a moment to take your order.”

  I stand up. “You know what, that won’t be necessary. I’m not that hungry anymore. I’ll meet you out front.”

  I didn’t want the night to go like this, but I walk away from him. We’re like oil and water. He thinks one thing and I think the other. So much for having a normal good time. So much to surrendering myself over to the experience.

  Cormac

  Monday, July17th

  I slept on the couch.

  That’s where we agreed I’d sleep, anyhow, but it felt worse than I thought it would. Maybe it was the position I was sleeping in, or maybe it was the way things ended last night. We didn’t speak a word to each other on the way home, and once we were here we just went to neutral corners.

  But I have a day in front of me—a stack of interviews, contract negotiations, and meetings—I can’t let this little experiment get in the way of real life. She didn’t say a word to me as I got ready this morning, and that was honestly fine with me.

  I decide to stop at Starbucks on my way into the office to get as large of a cup of coffee as they have, but seeing the line I’m already regretting my decision. It must be at least ten or more people deep. I look down at my watch and see that I’m already twenty minutes late, and counting. Fucking traffic from the suburbs into the city is a nightmare. I check my phone and see that I have two—count them, two—texts from Elissa asking me where I am.

  Cormac: Traffic from Cynthia’s place. Sorry. Be there soon.

  Elissa: I’m going to start the first author meeting so that we don’t get backed up.

  Cormac: Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Sorry.

  Alright. I need this line to move. I’ve been here five minutes already and I think only one person has put their order in. “How hard is it to make a fuckin’ cup of coffee for all these hipster assholes?” Another one of those moments where I let my mouth say things that should probably stay inside of my head. I look around to make sure there are no Brooklynites with long beards, flannel shirts and fake glasses to get offended. I think I’m in the clear—everyone in here is wearing some kind of suit.

  “The world needs hipster assholes.” The female voice from behind me is familiar. Too familiar. “They’re some of my most loyal readers.”

  Oh. My. God. I turn around and there she is—my ex, Maryanne—standing there in all her crazy glory. I don’t say anything back. I just kind of stand there like I’m seeing the ghost of girlfriend past. She smiles. Of course she smiles. “What? Now you’ve got nothing to say? That’s not the Cormy I know.”

  Cormy! Leave it to her crazy ass to formulate a nickname no one else has ever called me in my life.

  I cringe inside when she calls me the name I hated even when we were together. My mom almost punched her in the face once when she heard how this woman bastardized the name she gave me.

  “Hello Maryanne, how are you?”

  “Better than you, it seems. You look like you’ve had better mornings.”

  She still looks good. But then I remind myself what she did to me and any effect her face or body may have had on me instantaneously vanishes. “Bad night last night.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Bad night’s sleep? You have rings under your eyes.”

  “Yeah,” I say, still staring a bit, like this is some weird dream I’m sure to wake from at any minute. “Something like that.”

  “You always got them when you didn’t get a solid eight hours.”

  Don’t reference our relationship, you awful. . .

  “Yup. I always did.” I hate that this is happening. If it wasn’t for the arbitrary Long Island Expressway traffic I wouldn’t have to see this woman right now. The universe hates me this week. “So what brings you this way?” I know exactly what brings her this way. That’s just the kind of mindless question you ask your ex when you randomly run into them at Starbucks. She’s he
re because our biggest rival—the publishing company she jumped ship to sign with—is around the block.

  “I have a meeting.”

  Of course you do. Thanks for lazily trying to spare my feelings. That was almost nice of you. “Right. That makes sense.”

  I’m usually good at speaking to people—I pride myself on it. Even though I’m blunt, usually I can keep a mindless conversation going for as long as it needs to, but this exchange of words is painful. I want to euthanize this talk before it suffers any more—take it behind the barn and shoot it in the head. It’s only humane.

  “You wish I wasn’t here, don’t you?” she asks.

  “Kind of,” I don’t expect to be that honest, but then I remember that I have absolutely zero incentive to be nice to her. “Or me. Or any other scenario that doesn’t involve trying to make small talk with my ex girlfriend who used me to make her career.”

  “Oh, wow, that again. I must have really hurt you that you’re still thinking about all that.”

  All that? You mean the year we spent together?

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m going to turn back around now and pretend that I’m just standing on an annoying line for coffee, instead of standing on an annoying line for coffee while debating the revisionist history of a failed relationship with my ex. If I have to choose, the former is just a little less painful.”

  I turn around, somehow stupidly assuming that would be the end of it. I know Maryanne well enough to know that she won’t just let it lie—she has to get the last word in. “Revisionist history? Huh? Interesting way of putting it.”

  I turn around again. She missed the eye roll that happened right before, but it happened. “Look. Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s just an accident of the universe that you and I find ourselves standing face to face. I don’t want to fight with you but I also don’t want to get into things I’ve been trying to let go for months now. I’m really not trying to be rude, but I just want to get my caffeine and get to work. Can we just do that without talking to each other?”

  I expect her to go into straight bitch mode. That’s what she used to do when she was challenged. But that was a while ago. Instead she surprises me.