And One Last Thing...

by Молли Харпер

  “I agree,” he said, giving a small shudder. “I don’t know whether to feel aroused or harassed.”

  “You’re the one who brought up phallic meat products. If anyone should be creeped out by the boundary-crossing flirtation, it’s me,” I told him.

  “When I flirt with you, you’ll know it,” he muttered.

  There was an unusually long conversational pause.

  “Awkward,” I commented.

  He nodded. “I’ve never had a girlfriend before. I don’t know if this is okay. I mean I’ve had a girlfriend, obviously. But I’ve never had a girl who was my friend -… Oh, for God’s sake, I sound like I’m in sixth grade.” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Please, help me get out of this conversation gracefully”

  “There is no graceful way out of this. This is the conversational Thunderdome.” I shook my head sadly. “Look, I need to finish up a few thoughts. And then I would be happy to come over for dinner. I’ll even bring a cake that doesn’t involve you getting smacked in the face. I will leave the inappropriate sausage innuendos at home.”

  “I would appreciate that.” He nodded toward my computer. “So how’s the writing coming along?”

  “I am channeling my angst into a chapter in which Laurie’s husband appears as a gory apparition while she’s in the tub,” I said. “Sure, she gets to keep the house, but seeing her broken, bloody husband skulking around the place is going to suck the fun out of it.”

  “I must admit, I’m thinking of putting you on a strictly Nicholas Sparks diet. I don’t think I’ve been a good influence on you, violence-wise.”

  I smirked. “It’s therapeutic.”

  “Just remember my theory on gore: ‘less is more.’ The only field where ‘more is more’ applies is porn.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind,” I promised.

  He peered over my shoulder at the screen. “Are you ever going to let me see it?”

  I snapped my laptop shut. “It will take more than kielbasa for that to happen.”

  He grimaced. “And now it’s awkward again.”

  When Monroe left, I couldn’t help but wonder at the weirdness that was our friendship. Female friendship was a precious thing I had been lacking for quite some time. And besides my relationship with Emmett, I had never had anything resembling camaraderie with a man. If this experience had taught me anything (besides pay more attention to your husband’s e-mail account) it was that I needed more friends, of either gender.

  If I was able to choose my own friends, and I was pretty sure

  I could now, would I choose someone like Maya? Strong-willed, independent, slightly off center. Or would I choose someone like Sam? Someone smart, successful, and poised? Or could I be friends with both women? If the chips were down, I think I’d want both of them in my corner. Sam seemed like the type that carried bail-ready cash around with her. But how exactly did a grown woman ask someone to be her friend? Was there an exchange of woven bracelets involved?

  And Monroe. I had never been more confused by my feelings for one person. There was no doubt that I was attracted to him physically. I kept expecting those mad adolescent crush feelings to fade as we spent more time together, but with every conversation, I just looked forward to seeing him again that much more. It wasn’t love. It was a meaningful friendship with someone who happened to be ridiculously good-looking.

  It was really going to suck when I moved on to whatever my next step was and moved away. Or we had sex and he had to move because it was disastrous and it would just be too weird for him to stay at the lake.

  I was pondering those cheerful thoughts when my cell phone rang. The caller ID showed it was Maya. I chuckled as I hit OK. This was going to be interesting.

  “Hey, I was just thinking about you. And not in a weird way.”

  “Hey Lace,” she said, her voice bright and clear over thrumming guitar riffs in the background. “I want you to go to your door in four… three… two…. one. Now.”

  Curious, I got up and found a FedEx truck pulling into the driveway outside my door.

  “How do you do that?” I asked as the deliveryman climbed out of the truck with a large purple shipping box.

  “GPS tracking systems,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve been monitoring the delivery progress. I wanted to hear your reaction when you opened your present.”

  “You are a frighteningly clever girl,” I told her as I signed for the package. “And you really don’t have to send me presents.”

  “Well, I can’t lure you to the dark side without bait,” she said. I opened the box to find a gift basket inside, topped with a lurid purple bow.

  “The First Wives Club. Enough. Sliding Doors.” I read the covers of the DVDs nestled inside. “And a mix CD entitled Music for Angry Chicks.”

  I sifted through the bottom of the basket, which was lined with typed statements from women from all over the country. Texas, Mississippi, Washington, Delaware. “What’s this on the bottom?”

  “You might call them case studies,” Maya said. “These are some of the clients who have expressed interest in newsletters from And One Last Thing …. I thought you might like to read some of their stories. You’ve got husbands who left their wives for their receptionists, babysitters, dry cleaners, golfing buddies. One woman’s husband slept with her identical twin. He tried to tell her he didn’t know it was cheating.”

  “So you lure me in with girl power movies and then you sucker punch me with women crying out for vengeance?”

  “I don’t like to think of it as sucker punching,” Maya said. “I prefer to think of it as setting a mood.”

  “You’re the devil,” I told her as I skimmed over some of the statements. Maya’s clients were from all walks of life, all over the country. The one thing they had in common was an unfaithful husband and an overwhelming need to get their dignity back. They could suffer the loss of love, the life they thought they had, the luxuries of a two-income household, if they could just hold their heads up when they went to the Walmart. And they seemed to think they could get that back if I helped them. The problem was helping them meant repeating one of the more reckless things I’ve ever done and directly disobeying my attorney, whose patience I did not want to test.

  “Just read over them and get back to me,” Maya told me. “And enjoy the movies. I’ve been where you are right now. You’re hitting that two-month lonely stage when you start to question what you did. Your friends’ sympathy is starting to wane, because they’ve never been through something like this and they think you should be over it by now. So you’re up all night, alone, watching bad television. I thought I might help remedy that. And the CD is mostly Pink, post-divorce.”

  “Actually, I’m doing okay,” I told her. “I’m not really that lonely.”

  “Have you met someone?” she moaned. “Damn it.”

  “And why would that be a bad thing?”

  “Because if you’re all dewy with the first blush of new love, you’re not going to want to help wronged women get revenge,” she griped. “You’re in the middle of nowhere. How could you possibly meet someone there… Oh, wait, the hunky neighbor. The plot thickens.”

  “Yeah, he remembers you, too,” I commented drily. “And I’m not dewy with anything. I just made a friend.”

  “Well, every time you start to feel all giddy with hormones, I want you to read another one of these letters and remember what it feels like to have the rug pulled out from under you by a man.”

  “I’ll try,” I promised.

  “Are you still at least considering my proposal?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I am. I’ve just been sidetracked by another project. I’ll try to give you a decision as soon as possible. And thanks for the movies. I’ll e-mail you.”

  “And listen to the angry music!” Maya called as I started to hang up. “We’ve got to stick together on this, Lacey. I’m sending you more movies. And some books. And some -”

  I pushed END and batted packing pe
anuts out of the way as I examined my new movies. “Strange girl. Brilliant, but strange.”

  18

  Workshopping Without Anesthesia

  It took me a few days to work up the nerve to show Monroe what I’d written. And then I took it right back. Several times.

  “I changed my mind,” I said, snatching the papers out of his hand before his eyes could focus on the page.

  “Okay, if you keep doing that, I will not be able to read it. Also, I will get a headache. And then I will be annoyed.”

  “All right, fine.” I shoved the stack of pages at him.

  He glared up at me. “You’re going to take it away again, aren’t you?”

  “Just one more time,” I promised, but as I grabbed for it, he pulled his hand out of my reach. I gasped as he pulled away the title page and settled into his chair. “You’re going to read it now?”

  “Yes.”

  When I reached for the paper again, he gave my hand a light smack. I bit my lip. “You’re right. I needed that.”

  He flashed a grin at me. “Now, the question is, are you going to sit here while I read it. Or do you want me to wait until you’re home?”

  “Which would you recommend?”

  “Here, let’s make it even,” he said, handing me a manuscript called Two-Seven-Zero. “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

  “But -” Without looking up from my opening page, Monroe pointed to a chair by the fireplace and pressed a finger to his lips. Slightly disgruntled, I sat and flipped past Monroe’s title page. I looked over the edge of the paper and watched his face. I dreaded hearing what he thought, but desperately wanted to know. What if the newsletter was a rage-fueled fluke?

  Monroe was distressingly straight-faced and silent as he read. Seriously, he couldn’t twitch or something?

  Without looking up, he called, “Read, Lacey. Read and breathe.”

  I cracked the manuscript and got lost in the story of a patrolman who gets sent to a routine burglary and meets a seemingly normal woman who then pulls the full-on Glenn Close routine. The numeric title was based on the police code for dealing with a crazy person.

  I was so wrapped up in Monroe’s description of the stalker showing up at the cop’s house with a caterer to discuss the couple’s upcoming wedding that I’d almost forgotten that Monroe was reading my stuff. No, wait, there was the paralyzing anxiety again. A few minutes later Monroe announced that he was finished. I resisted the urge to bolt out of the front door.

  “This is my professional hat,” he said, pointing at his head. “Nothing I’m about to say is personal. This is just one man’s opinion -”

  “Quit stalling and get on with it,” I told him.

  “Obviously, you’re going to go through a couple of drafts, but I think it has potential. You have a strong voice, a good ear for dialogue, and there were some truly horrible, disturbing images in there.”

  “I am going to take that as a compliment. There’s a ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?”

  He nodded. “Is there going to be any sex?”

  “Well, I’m writing about a woman who’s in the middle of a divorce. She’s not really going to want to date.”

  “She couldn’t have a rebound boyfriend or a one-night stand? Hell, you could have a flashback of the better times in her marriage. You don’t have to go explicit, but the readers will appreciate a little sex to go with their drywall-based violence.”

  “I don’t even know if I’m going to be able to write a sex scene. It just makes me nervous, knowing that someone else would be reading it.”

  “Well, get the hell over it,” he told me.

  “Nice.”

  His tone softened a bit when he saw me blush. “Sorry. You asked for my opinion and here’s my advice. Just sit down and write a sex scene. Even if it’s a bad sex scene, just get it out of your system so you don’t get blocked. You can go back and rewrite it. Come on, woman, you’re a husband-humiliating, ass-baring Valkyrie! You can’t be scared of a little sex. Where’s your passion? Where’s your fire?”

  “Oh, well that’s easy. I don’t have either of those things.”

  “Do you have seizures?” he asked, nonplussed. “Do you drool? Experience uncontrollable arm spasms? What?”

  “Oh, sweet Irene, this is just mortifying,” I groaned.

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “I told you about getting shot in the ass; how much worse could it be?”

  “That happened to you once,” I said. “This is a lifelong problem. I just don’t do well when it comes to sex with other people. I don’t have orgasms, okay? I know I can, it’s not an anatomical problem. It takes me a while to warm up and then by the time I get up in time.”

  Monroe chuckled and when I didn’t smile in return, he blanched. “You’re not kidding.”

  “Sadly, no.”

  “And let me guess who told you that’s your fault,” he muttered.

  “I can provide you with a reference,” I told him.

  “No, I think I know who your source is. And I don’t buy it. A frigid woman does not skinny-dip. A frigid woman would not have chased after me, naked, to tell me to fuck off.”

  “You’re not going to forget that anytime soon, are you?”

  “Not likely,” he said, without pausing. “And when He Who Should Not Be Named hinted that you were no good in the sack, what did you do?”

  My lips twitched. “I bought a vibrator.” When Monroe barked out a surprised laugh, I added, “It has five speeds.”

  “And I’ll bet you’ve used them all,” he said.

  I nodded. “Yes, I have.”

  “Frigid, my ass,” he said, handing me my pages. “Now I want you to go home and write about sex. It’s like X-rated homework. Write sex scenes until you’re not embarrassed about it anymore. Be graphic, be dirty, and it won’t be scary anymore, I promise.”

  “You will never see them, but okay,” I said, heading toward the door. I stopped and turned back to him. “I don’t want to have sex with you.”

  The color drained out of Monroe’s face before he threw his head back and laughed. “That was really… straightforward. I haven’t even kissed you yet.” enthusiastic, it’s over. It’s like I can’t catch

  “It’s not funny,” I said, smacking his arm.

  “It is,” he said, still laughing. “I’ve never been shut down so fast in my life. You’re practically a cock-blocking ninja.”

  “Crude!” I shouted. I shoved at his chest. “No. This wasn’t some coy, hard-to-get, I-want-you-to-respect-me game. I like you. I mean, I really like you. And I don’t want things to be awkward between us.”

  “Did you just put me in the friend zone?” he asked, indignant as he backed me up against his front door. My hand raised instinctively against his chest and found that all that jogging had served Monroe quite nicely.

  “Look, I don’t have that many friends and you’ve been - well, you were an ass at first, but now, I think of you as a good friend and I don’t want to - mmumph” I was cut off when Monroe wrapped his hands around the nape of my neck and crushed my mouth against his, taking my breath and any semblance of coherent thought right out of my head. It felt like every nerve ending in my body was focused in my lips, so I could feel Monroe from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. He released me, letting me settle rather unsteadily back on my feet. I blew out a shaky breath. “Okay, then.”

  “Do you feel awkward now?” he asked.

  I bit my lip, wincing at how bruised and swollen it felt, and considered. “No, a little tingly, but not awkward..

  “Do you feel differently about me?” he asked. “Are you going to avoid talking to me or looking me in the eye because you’re embarrassed that I just kissed you?”

  Right now, all I wanted to do was kiss him again, so avoiding him really wasn’t at the top of my list of priorities. “Er, no.”

  “So I think we’ll be fine,” he said, taking my elbow as I walked outside on wobbly legs. “Now go home and write somesex
scenes. There’s a game on tonight. Come over and have a beer, if you’re interested. If not, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Monroe winked at me and closed the door, leaving me to stare after him in stunned amazement.

  What the hell had just happened?

  I called through the closed door. “You know, there’s a reason people don’t always say exactly what they’re thinking!”

  At last count, it had been almost four months since I’d had any sort of sex. It had been Mike’s birthday. He had too many drinks at his birthday party, and I guess he was too blotto to notice I was his wife, not his girlfriend. So it had been a grand total of one hundred twelve days, three hours, and forty minutes since I’d had even bad sex.

  And it showed.

  The first sex scene I wrote was basically porn. Monroe said to be as graphic as possible, so I was. I used every dirty word I knew… and some that I just made up. I didn’t even give the characters’ names or backgrounds or a plausible reason for having sex. They were just “he” and “she” and they were naked. There was thrusting, sweating, slamming, biting, pinching, and a lot of extremely clinical anatomical terms I will spare the kids at home.

  “It sounds like I have Tourette’s syndrome,” I groaned, deleting it.

  The problem, as usual, was that I didn’t know what I wanted. I didn’t know what I liked in bed, so how was I supposed to write about it? Obviously, I knew how to make myself. happy. But who wanted to read about that? Well, I’m sure there were people who wanted to read about it, but they weren’t exactly my target audience. Part of my problem was I was afraid of the penis - not the body part, the actual word. I didn’t know what to call it.

  Penis, I typed quickly. Penis penis penis penis. The roof didn’t cave in at this blasphemy, so I would begin at the beginning. With a non-threatening penis euphemism.

  Length. Length was a good word. It wasn’t gross. It implied a healthy size. It was far more Nora Roberts than Violet Blue. My hand snaked down his slick torso and palmed the hard length of him, I wrote.

  “That’s not so bad,” I said, tilting my head like a sculptor observing a new clay shape. I continued typing.