by Andre, Bella
Right because there’s nothing more depressing then re-living your failed love life and looking at every single situation where things went wrong.
There was…
Derek. Psycho, and in love with someone else, yet I still dated him and so he remains on the list. Plus, he hates Mrs. Butterworth. A guy who hates animals obviously has some unresolved issues.
Mrs. Butterworth likes Preston…the thought lingers. I look down at her and say his name out loud just to test her. She doesn’t meow, simply stretches her paws and sighs. Yes, she lets out a sigh, I can hear it. Damn it, even my cat knows he’s pure gold. Maybe for future reference I’ll bang a pan when I say his name so I’ll classically condition her to pee herself.
I look back down at my journal, Tyler, Oh, Tyler! Yes, that’s a good one. I do believe we dated for three months before I found out that he still lived with his parents. Or should I say off his parents? The fact that his house was huge and that the furniture had a sort of familial feel to it should have been some sort of red flag. I finally clued in when his parents forgot he was taking me to their house and came home from work too early. It was awkward, and it got worse when his overly polite mom asked me to stay for dinner. When I saw his mom actually cut his steak into bite-size pieces then proceed to pat his head like a good boy, I almost threw up. Gross. I feel like crossing his name off. He definitely shouldn’t count.
Jonathan. Now there was a keeper. He could sing, he could dance, and he played basketball. He was an extremely talented athlete. The only issue was the fact he knew he was all of those things, meaning, I wasn’t the only who found him interesting. Three girls, there were three of us. I’m optimistic that I was at least the number two in looks department, but I’ll never know. He never used my real name but instead things like Baby or Sweetheart. At first I was flattered and then I asked him to write my name down on the appointment book for when I booked us a Valentines massage and he drew a smiley face. Right, you read that correct. He drew a smiley face where it said name and then when I gave him a look of total disgust he grabbed my ass and whispered that I was screwable in my ear. Because that makes things better, guys.
I asked him what my name was.
He laughed.
Don’t feel sorry for me, revenge is sweeter than anything he ever did for me. When I dumped him, I also broke into his email account and sent a forward to all of his friends with an up-close and personal photo of him picking his nose. Believe me, sending that picture instead of the other winners in his email account? A kindness. I should receive a freaking sainting.
And that leaves the one guy I actually liked, until the incident.
Bobby. His name was Bobby. And no, I didn’t meet him on the playground. He was actually pretty nice, at first (aren’t all mass murderers?). We met in college in a freshman English comp class. I fell hard. He had sandy brown hair and dimples; every girl in my class was in love with him.
One day when we were walking to class, he asked if I liked Swedish Fish, to which I enthusiastically replied, “Hell, yes! Do you have any?” Using my flirty voice, I might add. It must have worked, because he told me he would give me some if I studied with him, which I did.
We dated all the way through to my senior year of college, until on a cold stormy night he broke things off. “Amanda,” he said, “I just think we’re in different places. You want to go do fashion stuff, and I’m not saying that it’s whorish to like fashion, but I just think that, well, I have a higher calling. I’m going to be a politician.”
And this is why I’m strong now. I let this boy in, and he ruined my life! He went on to say that not only did he think it was immature to like clothes so much, but his parents also thought I was materialistic. Never mind that his mother made her own clothes and actually told me, to my face, that real women sewed. I can only assume she meant I wasn’t a real woman. I’ve never wanted to flash an elderly person more in my entire existence.
Needless to say, I went shopping after that event. Kristin later helped me take back all the clothes I bought that day, knowing a college student couldn’t afford them. I haven’t seen Bobby since. But I’m guessing he grew out of his jack assery and is now sleeping with high-end call girls in DC. I pray he develops a case of syphilis every night before I go to sleep.
So that’s it. That’s my list. I decide to uncross Tyler because I should have dated more than just four people in my lifetime. There is no way I will count the dates that never went past the first meeting.
Plus, it now seems like a depressing endeavor to undergo on such a stressful day.
The ringing of the phone interrupts my thoughts, reeling me back into reality “Hello?”
“Hi, Amanda, it’s Jane!” Jane is a manager at one of the other chainstores I work for.
I know, I know, two jobs, but hey, I have to pay back the student loans somehow! Mainly I just help the seamstresses on staff at Blaze with measurements and sewing. It's one of the things that soothes me. Blaze is kind of like our version of Macy’s; they aren’t everywhere, but they’re definitely a chain clothing store. Jane keeps talking a million miles a minute. I sigh. She’s stupid; sweet, but stupid. You know the girls who seem to steal brain cells from you just by being in their presence? Her dad was our district manager, so she hadn't climbed the corporate ladder like everyone else.
“What’s going on?” I ask, trying to sound polite, even though I am annoyed by the interruption.
She giggles on the other end, and I roll my eyes, praying for the phone to disconnect.
“Well, I just got the go-ahead from Daddy to launch our new local ad campaign!”
“Awesome.” I say dryly. Why was she calling me on a Saturday to tell me this?
“And,” she pauses for dramatic effect, “he also let me pick out the male models. And you know what’s so great, Amanda?”
“Nope, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me!” I joke — half kidding, half totally serious.
“One of them knows you!”
My heart stops. Someone call an ambulance. My heart just freaking stopped. I know who it is. It has to be Preston. Because come on, if we’re honest, this is how my life is going right now. It has to be him. How did he do this? Why is he weaseling his way into my life like this?
“His name is Preston. He’s one of the firefighters from the calen—”
“Right!” I cut her off. “Well, sounds great. See you Monday!”
“Wait!” she yells on the other end. “I have to send all of them to you this afternoon so we can get the measurements for the shoot tomorrow. That’s why I’m calling. You should expect them around two.”
I look at my clock and pale. It’s 1:45.
“JANE!” I don't even bother to hide my frustration. “Why didn’t you call sooner?”
“Sorry, I was busy. Plus, I thought you were one of those people who went to church. Geez, calm down.”
“It’s Saturday!” I screech. I am hyperventilating into the phone. Must. Get. Air.
“So that’s all! Make sure you get all of their measurements. They have to take off their shirts too, so we can see the correct fit of the muscle tees. Makes me wish I had your job! Have fun!”
She hangs up, leaving me in a state of panic and disarray. I look down and moan. Yup, still in the sweat pants. I hear my door bell and feel myself yell in slow motion. “Just a sec!” Only it sounded low, like you see on TV when they do the freeze frame movements. Luckily, my body is still moving at normal speed, so I dive into my room like a tornado and throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, grab my measuring supplies, and return to unbolt the door.
February. It is Mr. February. I remember, because he had blue eyes you could get lost in, yet he looked way older than me, most likely in his 40s?
“Hey, sorry to barge in, but the girl at the store said—”
I cut him off with my hand. “No, it’s fine. Come on in!”
“Oh okay, thanks.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and ducks, yes, I said ducks, into
my family room. “Nice place.”
He turns to smile at me but his teeth are, well, let’s just say, not straight. Now I know why he didn’t smile in the calendar picture. He does have a good smolder, but a good smile? Not so much. I do his measurements and send him on his way.
January is next, then March, April, June, May, September, November, July, and August.
All I have left is October and December. I’m hoping that Mr. October arrives before Mr. December; then maybe I can bolt my door closed and say something in a creepy accent. “She no here no more, she die.” Then Preston would be forced to leave and get his measurements done elsewhere, anywhere. I don’t even care. I will give references, or better yet, I will have my own personal seamstress call him. Wait. I am my own personal seamstress.
The doorbell rings again. I take a deep breath, open it, and come face to face with my past.
“Bobby?”
Wow, did NOT see that coming. Thanks, God. Amanda=0, God=2. He isn't in the calendar; not once did I see him in the calendar. What is he doing here? He can't be one of the male models. Yeah, that would be ironic. He pushes his fingers through his curly, still-sandy-brown hair and gives me the smile, dimples and all. Nope, I know he isn't in the calendar. I wouldn’t have bought it had I known or seen him. Then again, I may have purchased it then lit it on fire and danced around it. You know, after I Googled how to put a hex on ex-boyfriends.
“What are you doing here?” I ask a little too rude for someone I haven't seen in over two years. His smile fades as his eyes scan me up and down.
“I thought this is where Jane said to come for the measurements?”
“For the male models,” I say slowly. The poor guy, maybe he is confused, not that he can't be a male model.
“Yeah, um, I got that part. I’m Mr. October, Melba Fire Department? All of us are doing the shoot?”
“I thought you were going to be a politician,” I manage to say with heavy sarcasm as I widen the door for him to enter. What a weird twist of events.
“Yeah, about that.” His face reddens a bit as he runs his hands through his thick hair.
What happened to my Swedish-Fish-loving ex-boyfriend, who thought I was materialistic?
“It wasn’t really for me. I quit after my first year getting my masters and decided to become a fireman. In a way, it’s still like being a politician. You know, working for people, saving lives.”
He winks and shrugs his massive shoulders. Firefighting has clearly been good to his body; that much is obvious.
But I don't remember seeing him as Mr. October. However, I do not want to admit to him I had actually seen part of the calendar, so I would have to wait until it came in the mail on Monday.
Not that I have an alert on my cell phone reminding me when the calendar is supposed to be delivered.
Nodding, I grab my measurement tape. “Okay, so if you could just take your shirt off now.”
He looks at me as if I had just asked him if he could please eat my cat and pales as I wait for him to do what I asked.
Sighing, I explain, “To get the measurements for the muscle T-shirts. I can’t do that with your bulky sweater on. So if you would be so kind as to take it off, I will make this experience as painless as possible. It’s okay. I’m a professional.”
He hesitates slightly before taking off his shirt, revealing chiseled abs and a nice spray-on tan. Trust me, I know. I begin measuring and notice that not only is he extremely close to me, but his body is radiating heat, too much heat. Wanting to look up and see what his problem is, my brain kicks into gear and reminds me it wouldn’t be wise. Wait a second, is that a Rolex watch? What in the world! And he called me materialistic. I snort out loud in disgust.
“Is something wrong?” he asks politely.
“Nope. You’re good!” I reply, still maintaining my no eye contact rule. “You can put your shirt back on now. Give me a moment to take the rest of the measurements, and you can go.”
He put his shirt back on, and I allow myself to let go of the breath I had apparently been holding. It’s not that I am attracted to him. I mean, he’s good looking, but he still broke my heart, and something about him just seems off. All girls want the guy who dumps them to come crawling back, and I’m not saying I wouldn’t welcome it, but I’m still recovering from the shock of it all. Wait, this means he and Preston work together. Odd.
The knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. I know who’s on the other side. “Hang on a sec, that’s my last model, I think.” I indicate a chair for Bobby and stride slowly to open my door.
“Hey there, Panda, miss me?” Preston grins and brushes past me without an invitation. Well, this should be fun and totally not tense at all, nope. He doesn’t notice Bobby sitting there. In Preston’s defense, Bobby’s strangely quiet.
“Are you going to back out of the trip, Panda Bear?”
He’s trying to break me, I can feel it, and I refuse to go down without a fight.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I fully intend on going on the trip without you. My cat is going instead.” I put my nose in the air and cross my arms.
“Oh, wow. If that doesn’t scream desperate spinster, I don’t know what does.”
His face is so smug I want to throw Mrs. Butterworth at him, claws first. I try to tell her in my mind to attack him, but instead she walks right up to him and purrs! Damn it! How dare she! Shouldn’t she be able to sense my anger? Plus, this is her territory, and he is a mean man!
He picks her up and strokes her face, not at all thrown off by the odd way she looks and feels. “Just how many cats do you have, Amanda?”
I roll my eyes and walk back to where Bobby is silently gaping. His face is twisted with hostility and irritation, and I honestly can’t tell if it is directed at me or at Preston.
“We’re almost done here,” I call back to Preston, but he doesn’t seem the least bit fazed.
He just shrugs and continues petting Mrs. Butterworth. He either doesn’t notice Bobby glaring at him or he doesn’t care. In Preston’s defense, it wouldn’t be a fair fight anyway. He could destroy Bobby. His height alone towers over him.
My list missed that part; Bobby is vertically challenged, and, I know, I have no room to talk. In reality, he made me feel better about my lack of height. I accepted myself, because he accepted himself, and he isn’t that short. If I were to guess, I would say he is around 5’9’’, but in comparison to Preston’s 6’4’’ stature, Bobby looks like a child.
Bobby shakes his head, obviously annoyed at the interruption, and lets me finish. He takes off without saying thank you and slams the door behind him.
“Geez, you’re welcome.” I mumble under my breath.
“Don’t worry about Bobby. He’s always like that,” Preston says as he begins taking off his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I yell, not able to take my eyes off his chest.
“Um, don’t you have to fit us for the muscle T-shirts?” His face is mildly amused.
I, however, am not. He totally throws me off with his confidence. It seems so at odds to the boy I used to know.
“Yes, you’re right. Sorry I—” Instead of finishing my sentence, I just shake my head and begin measuring.
It’s different having to see him this close up. His abs are real and he doesn’t need the spray tan to make them look better or more defined. They are perfect. Upon closer inspection, I can see they deserve their own fan page on Facebook. I want to touch them, to make sure I’m not hallucinating or having some sort of out-of-body experience.
It’s not until I hear Preston clear his throat that I realize I am holding the measuring tape across his abs without measuring. But I am staring open-mouthed at his six-pack as if I expect it to speak to me. He chuckles to himself, and I let the measuring tape snap his bare skin, and then apologize when he lets out a string of curses. He deserves much worse.
“Okay,” I say coldly, “you can put your shirt back on now. We are almost done.” I
try not to watch him put the shirt back on but fail. If your last boyfriend was Derek, and you had no one but a cat to keep you company, you would be staring as well. Especially, if the man in your house looks like he is shooting a commercial for, well, it doesn't matter, because as I look at him now I realize I am so buying.
I shake my head as I watch the shirt pull down over his tight chest and try to think about Grandma Ned, but it doesn’t work! Summoning my self-control, I again think about Grandma Ned and how she got so mad that one time she caught me watching TV during Christmas break. Yes, that was a bad time; I believe her choice word was heathen. If Grandma Ned were here, she would call me much worse.
“Are you done yet?” I plead, voice cracking.
“I’m not the one doing the measuring, seamstress lady.”
Oh, he did not just call me that! Hey may as well have just called me a spinster again. I feign a smile through clenched teeth, while I secretly hope the gym isn’t crowded so I can go running later this afternoon. If I don’t, I’ll spontaneously combust with all this tension.
Preston waits for me to finish with the last measurements. I escort him to the door in hopes he’ll leave quickly, before I either kill him or steal his virtue.
Just as he crosses over the threshold, he turns to face me and says, “I think you’re afraid to go on a trip with me. You like me, admit it.”
I smile sweetly while leaning in. His eyes take on a smoldering look of anticipation; then as I close the distance between us, I slam the door in his face.
It’s official. I’m going to Hawaii. Yes, I know Preston will be there. But I won’t back down from whatever the hell he has planned. Please. Afraid of him?
There is no fear, but there is attraction, and it’s like gravity. And, if I am being honest, that does scare me, because I deserve to be hurt by him. The whole situation is the perfect revenge. If I have any fear it is that his sarcastic and arrogant presence will tempt me to end his life before we land in Hawaii.