by Penny Reid
In many ways, women were the enemy of realistic representations of beauty. We sabotaged our own self-interests…and that was sad. I sighed at the model and flipped open the magazine, scanning the contents, noticing with no interest that there was an interview with America’s Next Top Model’s latest winner.
And then I remembered.
I remembered I’d been derelict in reading Martin’s Men’s Health interview from over the summer. Now that his relationship status with Rose Patterson had been clarified for me, I felt no trepidation at the thought of being faced with images of them together.
Sucking in an anxious breath, I jumped from my bed, and in my haste to scramble for my computer, tripped over a chair. It took a bit of browsing through smiling pictures of Rose, but I finally managed to locate the magazine article.
It had been given a month before his birthday and published the month after. His wasn’t the feature story. In fact, the interview was rather short and toward the back of the magazine. There were several pictures of him—shirtless of course, and in spandex of course—looking pensive and muscular, staring out over the water with a blue sky behind him.
The first half was about him being the youngest team captain in the American Collegiate Rowing Association. But, as Sam had warned, the second half was about me.
Interviewer: We have to ask you about your love life now, as a service to all our female readers. Any special girl in the picture?
Martin: No. Not anymore.
Interviewer: Not anymore?
Martin: Nope.
Interviewer: Care to elaborate?
Martin: Nope.
Interviewer: You were at one time romantically linked with Kaitlyn Parker, Senator Joss Parker’s daughter. Any credibility to that rumor?
Martin: Yes.
Interviewer: But you two split up?
Martin: Yes.
Interviewer: Did it have anything to do with Senator Parker’s politics?
Martin: No. It had to do with me being an a__hole.
Interviewer: Whoa! Should we take this to mean Kaitlyn Parker is The One That Got Away?
Martin: If you want, but I prefer to think of her as simply The One.
Interviewer: Okay then. You should know you’ve just broken a lot of hearts with that statement, but let’s move on. So what’s next for Martin Sandeke?
The first time I read it I didn’t absorb half of what it said. The second through hundredth time, I paused at the part where Martin said, If you want, but I prefer to think of her as simply The One, and my chest constricted.
If I thought I’d been obsessing about Martin before, then I hadn’t known the true meaning of the word. I tried to remember every look, every conversation we’d had over the last few weeks. Basically, I chased my tail in a racetrack of circular logic, ala:
If I was The One, as Martin had said, then why didn’t he try to contact me before December?
Because you told him to leave you alone, that’s why. So he left you alone.
But now he’s, what? He’s over me? He wants to be friends? Then that means I was never The One.
That’s right. You’re not The One.
Then why did he say that in the interview?
Maybe you were The One over the summer but he changed his mind, or maybe you are The One, but he’s waiting for you to give him a sign.
A sign? Like what? Ye Martin of Old would have just told me how he feels! What am I supposed to do?
I don’t know! Ask him!! I HAVE NO ANSWERS FOR YOU BECAUSE I AM YOU!!
Stop yelling at me…
Going to sleep that night I was still epically muddled.
However, I was also experiencing a growing sense of responsibility for the current state of my relationship (or non-relationship) with Martin.
***
January second rolled around, and I was very happy to be back at the Bluesy Bean making coffee and going through the motions, though—admittedly—still obsessing about Martin Sandeke. But instead of obsessing about what ifs, I’d moved on to obsessing about my plan to confront him.
I was going to do it.
I was going to arrange to meet him in a neutral spot and point blank ask him about the interview and the text message on New Year’s. I was going to put on my bad-ass-girl trucker hat and “adult” like an adult.
That’s why, when Martin Sandeke walked into The Bluesy Bean that afternoon, an immobilizing shock coursed through my body and I dropped the glass measuring cup I was holding. It shattered on the floor, making a really obnoxious crash.
Chelsea sucked in a sharp breath and jumped back from my inadvertent mess, possibly because she was wearing brand new, soft-soled leather slip-ons and didn’t want shards of glass near her feet.
“You startled me!” She pressed her hand to her chest, fluttering her eyelashes like she might faint.
The male customer who was at the counter (and with whom she’d been flirting for the last ten minutes) gave me a harsh glower and reached forward, gripping her upper arm.
“Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?”
“Yes. Yes, I think so.” She nodded and gave him a grateful smile.
She turned to face me so she could sit on the counter. Just before she swung her legs over, Chelsea gave me a conspiratorial wink, then turned into the waiting arms of the man. He was a Brad Pitt. Or, at least that’s the label she’d given him when he’d walked in.
Luckily the place was empty except for Chelsea, the Brad Pitt, Martin, and me.
Martin didn’t walk to the counter. He took a beeline to where I was standing behind the machines, his eyes moving over me as though searching for injury.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded, releasing a weary laugh. “Yes. Just…clumsy.”
He gave me a half smile. “Let me help you clean this up.”
“It’s okay, I can get it.”
But he was already walking into the back closet and returned quickly with a broom. “I’ll clean, you make me an Americano.”
“Martin—”
“Don’t argue with me, just once. Just once, please.”
I pressed my lips together, showing him I was displeased.
He mimicked my expression, but it looked ridiculous on him. Then he made the strangest face. His eyes crossed and he bared his front teeth as though he were a rabbit.
I blinked at him. “What are you doing?”
“Making a funny face in an effort to make you stop staring at me like I murdered your beloved goldfish. What are you doing?”
Of course, this made me laugh.
The problem was, I couldn’t stop laughing once I started. It was absurd that he was reminding me of our time on the island, using my own lines and strategy against me so he could clean the floor. But it worked. It distracted me from the mess and it also distracted me from my Martin Sandeke obsession. It felt good to laugh, a necessary release. I had to hold on to the counter because I was laughing so hard. Basically, I had laugh-paralysis.
He chuckled and squinted his eyes at my inability to control the hysterics, but took advantage of my arrested state to sweep the glass and deposit it in the trash.
As soon as I could breathe again, yet still wiping tears, I turned from him and grabbed a paper cup to make his Americano. I figured I couldn’t be trusted with anything breakable at this point.
When he finished, he replaced the broom and dustpan then moved back to the other side of the machines, waiting for me to finish.
“Feel better?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Can you take a break?”
My gaze flickered to his then around the shop. No one new had entered.
“Yes.” I sighed and paired it with a nod. “But just until we get a customer.”
“Good. I’ll be over there.” He indicated with his head to the table we’d used the last time he was here, then added, “And grab some cookies.”
***
I brought enough cookies to share plus a muffin with butter, h
is coffee, and a cup of strong coffee for me. Really, I needed hard liquor, because I was going to do it. I was going to confront Martin Sandeke. I was going to demand answers.
However, no sooner had I sat down, he asked, “Now that we’re friends, can I ask you for advice?”
I sputtered for a moment, then finally managed, “You want to ask me for advice?”
“Yes.”
“Uh…sure. If I don’t know the answer I’ll look it up on consumer reports.”
“Consumer reports?”
“I have an online account. I bought a mattress based on their recommendation, sight unseen until the delivery day, and it was the best decision of my entire life.”
“Really?” He was smiling, his eyes shimmering at me with happy amusement, and he wasn’t even trying to hide it. “The best of your entire life?”
“Yes. Of my entire life. It’s so comfortable, and when I’m at home I’m basically in bed the entire time. I’m going to marry it and we’re going to have twin beds together.”
“When we were together we were in bed most of the time, too.” He uttered this with no intonation in his voice, and his eyes were free of mischief, as though he was just making innocent conversation.
“Yes, well.” I had to clear my throat, feeling off kilter, not knowing how to segue this conversation into the discussion I was determined to have. As well, my pants never let me forget how much they liked that time in bed with Martin, so I was feeling a bit hot and distracted. “We weren’t sleeping much that week. In my new bed all I want to do is sleep.”
“I think I hate your bed. If we ever get back together, you’ll need to get rid of it.” Again, his tone was conversational.
I tripped over my words, my heart in my throat, thumping wildly. The time was now, this was my chance to confront him and decide things between us.
However, before I could form the pointed question that would serve as the key to unlocking our conversation, he said, “So, let’s say I like this girl…”
My mouth dropped open and I felt like I’d been tackled from behind, my breath leaving me with a whoosh. I blinked at him. The room tilted.
“Kaitlyn?”
“Yes?” I managed to breathe, though the room continued to dip precariously. I realized I was gripping the table and forced myself to release it, my hands falling to my lap.
“Are you…” his eyes narrowed on me, “are you all right?”
Just because you don’t feel calm, doesn’t mean you can’t be calm.
I nodded. “Yes. Fine. So you like a girl.” I sounded like a robot.
“Yeah. And I need your advice about her.”
“You need my advice about her.” I was careful to keep my expression unruffled and unconcerned, even though my brain was abruptly on fire. I noted there was a butter knife on the table and I briefly imagined stabbing him with it.
Really? Two days after that text message, he was going to ask me advice about another girl? Really?
Wow.
WOW!
Boys are stupid. I needed to explore becoming a lesbian. I needed to add this to my to-do list and bump it up to the top.
How had the male gender managed to survive millions of years? Given that Martin, as a sample of his gender, thought asking me—his ex-girlfriend, the one who he’d spent Christmas with, snuggling on the couch, the one he’d bought a piano for—about another girl was a good idea, the male portion of the human species should have been extinct by now.
Of course, I knew he was going to date someone else eventually, and I wanted him to be happy, but…
JERK-FACE!
Did he have to ask me for advice? Where was Emma? Where were Eric and Ray? Couldn’t he pay someone to do this?
And yet…though my heart felt like it had suffered a new fracture, I couldn’t help think I’d just narrowly escaped a brand new broken heart. I’d been on the precipice of being brave, and nothing can make a person more foolish and vulnerable than bravery.
He was interested in someone else. He’d just provided me with the definitive answer to all my questions. Martin Sandeke was officially over Kaitlyn Parker. I had my answer because I was never The One, and now I could stop wishing.
“Kaitlyn?”
“Hmm?”
“What do you think?”
I blinked my confusion at him and shook my head. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
I must’ve zoned out, what with the planning to become a lesbian and eradicating the world of men and whatnot. I allowed myself to feel the hollow hurt, but would be damned if I showed it.
His eyes narrowed and he gave me a look of intense suspicion. “What was the last thing you heard?”
“You were saying something about your…girl?” I was very proud I didn’t end the sentence with, and then I was about to stab you with my butter knife.
“Yes, and then I asked you how I should go about informing this girl that I’m interested in her.”
Now I issued him a look of intense suspicion. “Martin Sandeke, you can’t be serious.”
“About what?”
“You don’t need advice from anyone on picking up girls.” I cleared my throat after I said this because I didn’t like how melancholy I sounded, how weak. I just needed to get through the next five minutes then I could finally close the book on our relationship. Now I definitely knew he wasn’t wishing for me.
He was wishing for someone new.
“You’re wrong, I do. When I’m interested in someone—actually interested—I’m terrible at it. I come on too strong, say the wrong thing, act like an asshole, push for too much too soon. I’m tired of fucking everything up. I want to do this right.”
“Because women usually throw themselves at you and you’ve never had to work for it?” I was pleased I sounded more like myself.
He frowned, examining both me and my words, didn’t commit one way or the other for a long moment, then shrugged. “Basically, yes.”
I snorted. “You are so arrogant.”
“Parker, both of us know why these girls throw themselves at me and it has nothing to do with my big head.”
“Or your itty-bitty, microscopic heart.”
He laughed, reluctantly at first, then just gave himself over to it. His eyes crinkling, the rumbly sound infectious and thrilling. I laughed too, shaking my head.
This felt weird, laughing with him now. It’s hard to laugh with a person when your guard is raised. Laughing can be just as intimate as touching. Given the fact he was definitely moving on, I didn’t want to be intimate with Martin ever again, so my merriment tapered off before his did and I searched for a way to let go of my jealousy, and actually help him.
In the end I decided to fake and force my good intentions.
I was jealous of this hypothetical girl. I was insanely jealous. I had no way to get around my jealousy other than to pretend I wasn’t jealous. And the thought of him trying to woo someone else didn’t just make me murderous, it made me nauseous. I pushed away the cookies.
I tried not to show how flustered this conversation was making me and forced a steadiness into my voice I didn’t feel. “Okay, so…you like this girl and you don’t know what to do, how to let her know you’re interested without coming on too strong, saying the wrong thing, and acting like an asshole.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
I peered at him, trying to approach this from a strictly problem-solving perspective and quell the ache in my heart. He stared back, his gaze intent and watchful, like the next words out of my mouth would solve all known mysteries of the universe.
I straightened in my seat, trying to distance myself from thoughts of Martin with someone else, because emotion was starting to clog my throat. “Pragmatically speaking, a lot of women like the whole caveman thing. You might be able get away with just being yourself, not changing your approach.”
He looked disappointed, maybe a little frustrated. “Because I’m a caveman? That’s how you see me?”
“No, no. Not at a
ll,” I said automatically, then sought to clarify, “I mean, we’re…we are definitely friends now, things are different. Before, when you were interested in me, you were domineering and demanding.”
“You liked that, I know you did.”
“Sometimes I liked it…” I trailed off, thinking about how much I did like it when Martin would take charge when we touched and were intimate. I also liked debating with him, that he wasn’t a pushover, so I added, “I liked that you challenged me and pushed me outside my comfort zone, pushed me to see that passion mattered. But I didn’t like it when you were heavy-handed, or tried to manipulate me by yelling at me. No one likes being yelled at. I also didn’t like how callous you were sometimes to my feelings. I appreciated your honesty, but it’s important to be honest without being mean. Does that make sense?”
He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes losing focus. “That makes sense.”
“Ultimately though, when I had a problem with how you were acting, I let you know. Like you said before, you aren’t a mind reader. No one is a mind reader—Lord knows I’m still terrible at picking up on things even when they’re staring me in the face. I think you changed that week, or tried to. But given the fact it was only one week, I really think both of us tried our best to hear each other and change for the better.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. Do you remember what you wished I would have done differently from the start? How do I approach this girl and not make the same mistakes I made before?”
I stared at him for a beat, wrestling with myself, my heart hurting with every beat. I wanted to lash out at him, scream at him for wanting to do things right with this girl and using me and our time together in order to make that happen; as such, I couldn’t stop my acerbic remark.
“First, make sure her mother isn’t a senator, so there’s no external conflict of interest should you find an idea to exploit.”