“What do you mean?”
“She’s a mess, honey.” Sue Ellen’s drawl never fails to disappoint.
I wave it away. “She’s okay. Look, it was a platter of appetizers. So what? She was stressed out yesterday. It happens. And she’s always been a perfectionist, so it’s not surprising she’d overreact to something small like that, no?”
They’re both silent and I catch them giving each other The Eyes in the rearview mirror.
“What?” I snap.
“I think it’s worse than you think it is, boo boo.” Dina gives my shoulders a little rub from the backseat.
“There were a lot of little slip-ups, is all. And I just think, a home nurse or something—”
My insides light on fire. “Can we drop this? She’s not even here to defend herself. Look, she’s doing okay. A little clumsiness isn’t a big deal. We know this is part of Huntington’s. Let’s not make things worse by treating her like some kind of invalid.”
We’re quiet the rest of the way until Dina’s main squeeze calls, and it’s back to sunny skies until I drop them off.
The rest of the day flies by in a flurry of texts with Cliff, who wants to plan a real date, just the two of us. Like one with food and conversation and everything.
Now that I obviously have your friends’ stamp of approval, he says.
I smile at his confidence—cockiness? And after all the discussion about it the last few days, I’m game.
He wanted to meet up for a drink tonight, but I have important things to do, like reach out to some of my vendors for the fund-raiser and catch up on matchmaking for a few more clients.
That, and make oatmeal raisin cookies, but I don’t mention that one to him.
He’s a good sport and resigns himself to this hours-deep text string; and I appreciate a man who can give me the time I need to do work.
Just when things are starting to trend sexual (which is surprisingly longer than usual this evening for Cliff), there’s a knock at my door.
Me: That better not be you!
Cliff: Huh?
I tiptoe up to the peephole, which—come on—is never helpful—but I can tell it’s not my little lobbyist by the complexion at least. Even though the person on the other side of the door is being morphed into a blob through the fish-eye lens.
Quick hair check. Boob fluff (you never know). And I answer the door, a spatula full of cookie dough in one hand that I don’t bother to hide.
And there he is. Record scratch. A regular old T-shirt stretched across his torso. I haven’t seen him (in recent history anyway) looking so, informal. Regular. He had even looked dressed up in Graham’s shirt after the whole puking incident because he still had on his suit pants.
This version of Henry is disarming to me at a time I need to be arming with him, and I have to squeeze my eyes closed to refocus my attention.
“Henry? I—uh—to what do I owe—”
“Isla gave me your address.” His eyes are a bit wild. He talks with his hands, both stiff and outstretched. The intensity in his stance makes it feel as though he could shape-shift at any second. Wolverine claws about to break through his skin and slash about. “I need your help.”
Groan.
Why can’t these damn people do anything themselves?
“Me? Why? What’s wrong?” Despite the fact that I want to usher him out, I step back from the door and sweep my spatula-wielding hand in a welcoming gesture.
He’s quiet as he makes his way into my tiny apartment. I watch his demeanor change, calm, as he takes in the Jack Vettriano prints on the walls. He stops at “The Temptress,” a scene that takes place on a boat or veranda. It’s simply a woman’s legs in heels draped seductively over a table with a glass of wine, a cigarette dangling from a languid hand.
“That’s kind of beautiful.” He gives a thoughtful nod and makes a slow cross to my built-in bookshelf. A grin climbing up half his face, any remnants of tension now gone as he traces his fingertips over the spines of several of my favorite books.
“Those are all first editions,” I say, and I take a bite of oatmeal raisin dough. The sugar calms me. It’s like a hug from my grandmother or something. Warm and sweet and indulging in comfort all at once.
“No shit?” He peers closer. “Of Mice and Men? Awesome!”
I fall in next to him, my bowl of deliciousness resting on the bottom shelf.
“Yeah.” I reach out for a particularly dusty copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. “I know this dealer. It’s sorta been…”
My mouth parts, but the words won’t come out of my throat.
“What?” A hint of amusement in his tone.
I shake my head. “It’s just, I haven’t discussed it much before, but some things have happened recently that have reminded me of a dream of mine. It’s dumb.”
I slide Frankenstein back where it belongs and linger over it with my fingers.
“I’ve never known you to care what other people think, Four-eyes.” A hitch of an eyebrow.
I laugh.
He’s right.
“It’s been a little bit of a fantasy of mine to open a bookstore. Have some cool, rare editions, choose to sell what I want to sell. Maybe have a spot for some…spirits.” I smile. “Get to make the decisions on my own, you know?” I feel a heat leak its way down the slope of my neck and manifest itself into splotches of embarrassment on my chest.
He breaks the thick silence with a definitive pat of one hand on the bookshelf. “If anyone can do it, you can.” His tone is light. Sincere. “But why does it just have to be a fantasy?”
I shrug. He doesn’t need to know about this promotion.
“I don’t know; it seems like a pretty big animal. And like, I think I’ve always been more comfortable behind the scenes.” I’m still fondling the tomes, grazing my fingers over the surface of the grooves in the wood casings.
He snorts. “The White Witch? I thought she was second to no one. She would not approve.”
He gives a tut-tut-tut of the tongue, and I allow a full-on laugh now.
“Ah, but she’s not the rightful ruler. That’s Aslan, remember? Here.” I stretch to reach a tattered copy of C. S. Lewis’s celebrated masterpiece and snatch it from its spot on the top shelf. “You obviously need a brushup.”
I set it in his rough hands, and electricity buzzes through my fingers as they graze his. The fresh hint of soap on his skin, so subtle, so inviting, nearly lulls me away as I look up to meet his gaze.
None of this is good for my current plan.
“How’s that eye?” he asks, the hard features of his rugged face softening.
Just as quickly as his tender expression thaws something in me, it freezes me as well. Those blue eyes hit me like a bucket of ice water to the face. Focus.
I flinch before his hand reaches my cheek, and I cut him off. My hand flitting to the absence of that damn eye patch, a light chuckle escaping my mouth.
“What a nightmare, huh?”
I don’t dare meet his gaze again. I train my focus on the books. Clear my throat.
“So, what was it you needed my help with?”
“Oh—uh—that.” He takes a step back.
He’s the one struggling to make eye contact now, attention instead on the floor. He’s doing this thing where he’s straightening out the tangled fringe on the end of the rug with one Doc Martened foot.
“I wanted your advice.”
“On?”
“Ansley.” He looks up. His expression intense.
A nervous sort of titter escapes my lips without asking permission from me, and I clap a palm to my chest. “What do I have to do with her?”
I steady my hand there in hopes it’ll slow my heartbeat. Otherwise, he’s going to be able to hear it. It practically threatens to tell him everything.
“Well, you’re…friends, right?” He lifts one eyebrow but glances away.
I clear my throat again and get back to the cookie dough. Throw over my shoulder as I make
my way back into the kitchen: “I wouldn’t necessarily say that. We’re friend-ly. She’s come into the store a few times.”
“Right. Well, the couple of times we’ve been around together—all of us—”
I detect a slight flare to his nostrils, the way he says it.
“She seems to have really taken a shine to you. I just—Is there anything I need to know? I feel like something’s—”
I assess what he’s really asking. Narrow my gaze so I can squint through the bullshit.
When I don’t respond, he continues. “She mentioned she has a past. But she didn’t elaborate.”
“We all have pasts.”
The hint of a scoff. “I don’t.”
“Oh, please.” I’m shaking my head as I return to the cookie sheet, adding dollops of deliciousness to the skimpier globs of dough and making sure there’s enough space between them so they don’t stick together when they bake.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Graham and Isla’s wedding?”
I don’t know why I’m bringing it up, but I just have to create some distance between us.
I do a slow turn to see his reaction, and his ears turn a tinge of pink.
Mission accomplished, I guess?
“And?”
“What do you mean, ‘and’?”
“I was twenty-two years old.” He laughs, but I sense a defensive edge.
Exhale. “I suppose you’re right.” Enough torturing him. “To answer your question, as far as I know, Ansley hasn’t bedded an entire football team or anything.”
“It was two drunk chicks who practically threw themselves—” He spits.
I press a palm to his chest. “I know. I’m teasing.” Redirect. “Ansley’s a good girl. She’s a little accident prone—”
His countenance perks, perhaps at the recognition of the phrase from her profile—oops, but I smooth past it.
“She’s just a bit fragile, I think. But with the right guy, I know she’ll be fine.”
A silence swirls in the space between us, the timer going off to indicate the oven’s preheated, and just in time to save us from spilling over into awkward territory.
Or delving more into it.
He takes the opportunity to speak. “I’m thinking of taking her away with me next weekend. To the Poconos—”
“I don’t need the details.” I put up a hand and laugh. Turn my back to him now; put the cookies to bake.
And try to hold in the coffee that’s creeping its way back up my esophagus.
“What does that have to do with me?” I ask.
“I just—”
There’s something I can’t quite place in his voice. Fear? A plea? An accusation?
“Can you think of any reason I shouldn’t take her?”
I flip back around to face him again. Gazes locked.
And a thousand thoughts whisper through my head in this one moment. This is it. This could be my “speak now, or forever hold your peace” chance. He might not feel the same, but at least it would be honest. At least I’d actually be doing something for once.
A heat creeps from my toes all the way up to my neck.
But what about Ansley? She likes him. What would she say?
What would Isla say?
What will Gordon say, if I keep my mouth shut?
Cliff.
Henry’s right.
For someone who doesn’t give a damn about what other people think, I’m sure wasting a lot of mental energy worrying about it.
But I do care what Ansley thinks. She’s starting to feel comfortable with a guy again—with Henry—and I’m in part to do with that. How can I tell Henry the truth now and screw her over like this? She’s a good girl. She doesn’t deserve this. She deserves a chance with a guy like Henry. And she’s finally found someone she can fall for—and in front of—without having to worry.
“Blanche?”
His smile is small. Tenuous. Yet there’s a hope in it that breaks my heart wide open because I’ve deceived them.
I’ve deceived them all.
“She’s a great person. Of course you should take her. You should do whatever makes you happy,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can rally, and then I offer him the wooden spoon.
A peace offering for messing with his love life in the first place—and for even giving it a moment’s pause that I might do it a second time.
He stares back at me. One strong, silent beat that seems to echo out into space and time, to allow a first-edition novel’s worth of words to pass between us…but in actuality lasts only a second.
Something seems to click in his brain—his whole demeanor perks—and then, bam.
“Well, I guess that settles that, then,” he says. And then he grabs the spoon from my fingertips and gobbles up the dough.
* * *
I hole myself up in my apartment for the next two days, despite Cliff’s displeasure.
But good things come to those who wait, I remind him.
Plus, I’ve picked up three more clients this week, and I throw myself into every last one of them.
Shelly.
Lauren.
Bridget.
Three very different approaches to life, all looking for the same thing. Love. Or something like it.
My app of choice this week is HoneyBae, and that’s because the women have to speak first, and within twenty-four hours of matching, or the match goes away. Some of these dudes on Spark will wait a week, two weeks, will not message at all, and I need immediate immersion in someone else’s love life—someone who isn’t Ansley—Right the Hell Now.
I open Shelly’s matches. Now, Shelly’s pretty strict on her height requirements because Shelly’s a six-foot-one former volleyball player/current bodybuilder.
“I want someone who is manly,” she says during our phone consultation.
Heh. Don’t we all.
“And who makes me feel small.”
“That’s a tall order.” I snort and kind of hate myself for the pun, but I can’t help it.
It’s a sickness really.
“Don’t worry—” I say to her. “I won’t say that type of thing to the guys.”
After she agrees to our terms and we hang up—she wires the money—I spend a few hours researching the fitness competitions Shelly does, and in no time, I actually know the differences between those and CrossFit. And I’m astounded by how many there are.
Then I start swiping.
The first guy I give it a whirl on is this rock climber dude. Craig. It doesn’t say his height, but he’s got delts for days and a wingspan that seems workable for her. We’re just going by looks here, as he hasn’t written a personal statement or profile or anything, but he’d look good with my girl, I think. And it seems like he’d appreciate all of Shelly’s hard work on her body after her ugly divorce.
We match immediately, so that’s easy enough.
Now the talking part.
I scroll through the rest of his photos. He’s got a Jeep. He goes camping. (I wince, but remind myself this isn’t for me!) He either has a daughter, or that’s his niece.
You know, how they all do.
I drum my fingertips on my face, chin in hands.
Can’t do the Casablanca thing with this one. It backfired last time anyway.
Don’t be me don’t be me don’t be me.
Shelly:Awesome Jeep!
Nailed it?
It’s not a full ten seconds after I’ve sent the message that the toggle dots start a-bouncin’.
Craig:Thanks! What do you drive, pretty lady?
I smile. He thinks she’s pretty. And then—damn—I realize I don’t know the answer to that. I pull up my notes on her. “Car…car…” until Aha!
Shelly: Xterra. It’s not always so great here in the city, but I love taking it up to the mountains any chance I get.
We spend the next hour messaging at a fairly steady rate. I’m not mentally stimulated, but, I know, I don’t have to be. I t
ake a look at the Ansley burner phone and it tears at my guts.
And even though I know I shouldn’t, even though I know it will tear at my guts even more, the amount of raw cookie dough—and actual cookies—I’ve consumed in the last few days has clouded my better judgment and I’m too far gone in self-loathing…
So I picture the two of them, Henry and Ansley, in the Poconos.
I see Ansley’s luscious locks waving out from a stockpile car like ticker tape, the breeze rendering it careless and carefree.
Two things I wish I could be.
She tosses her head back in jubilant laughter as she rounds the bend and jerks the car to a stop next to Henry’s car. They emerge wearing matching jumpsuits. It’s sickeningly adorable. The two of them, looking blond and beautiful together, their fricking straight-ass teeth gleaming against the afternoon sun.
I hear the rush of the waterfalls they probably InstaPic from one of their sunset hikes.
Almost feel the gentle spray against my cheeks. Almost feel his arms wrap around my middle as I see him in my mind’s eye wrap them around hers to take a selfie in front of all the lush greenery.
I breathe in deep—can almost smell the sweet hint of blackened salmon on their plates—witness the candlelight dancing in their eyes as they stare dreamily across the table at each other with nary a word.
After all, they don’t have to say words to each other anymore. I did all the talking. I got them here. Now is the time for the brush of soft fingertips against cheeks. Sweet kisses. Pixie dust. For the gentle interlocking of fingers, for hands getting sweaty but not caring. For resting one’s head against another’s chest and feeling connected. Feeling fuzzy. Feeling safe and scared all at the same time because, with each heartbeat you hear through a stalwart chest, a brick from that wall is lifted, and you’re lighter. You want to squeeze closer. You want not to forget the way this feels. You want to memorize it so you can play it back when it’s gone.
My breath catches as I get a flash of waking up in Henry’s arms.
I almost gasp all over again.
It was accidental. I don’t remember what it felt like to wake up in his arms because I was so caught off guard and then, you know, the vomit.
But I imagine if I hadn’t been such a complete and total disaster, and if I could have been honest then, it would have felt to me just as I can picture it feeling to them in my head right now.
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