Trophy Husband

by Lauren Blakely

  She’s collected two boys, one on each side. “Look! I’m recruiting for you.”

  “I thought it was a girl’s night out.”

  “And on a girl’s night out, we like to meet boys. C’mon! The more the merrier when it comes to trophies! Let’s see who we have in store for you tonight.”

  I do my best to push Chris from my mind and focus on my turn-the-tables project. I slide in next to Boy Number One, who sports a buzz cut, broad shoulders, and a white-and-green-striped button-down shirt. Julia introduces him as Carl. Bachelor Number Two flanks her other side. He’s Tom, a little on the short side, but with warm brown eyes. They both smile.

  We exchange pleasantries and admire Julia’s drink, and then Julia gets down to business. She leans forward, laying her palms flat against the uneven wood table, warped with the sloshed juice of spilled drinks over the years. “So listen,” she begins, eyeing the boys. “My hot sister is looking for a young man to be a kept man. There’s like this big contest going on, I mean this is better than American Idol. This is your meal ticket, Tom and Carl.”

  I do my best not to roll my eyes. Julia could be in sales. The boys are enrapt, though that could be her lush auburn hair or the low-cut pink top she’s wearing. Then Julia snaps a finger at Hayden, who reaches into a black suede bag. She extracts a thick stack of business cards, the kind you print yourself, the perforated edge as the tell-tale sign of the do-it-yourselfer.

  “Shut up!” I say to Hayden. I had no idea she was up to something.

  “I told you that if you’re in this, we’re in this with you. So we thought we’d do a little grassroots marketing for you. Think of us as your on-the-ground Skyy Vodka girls,” Hayden says.

  I reach for a card and read. “Have you ever dreamed of doing nothing all day but looking good and servicing your woman? Then sign up for the Trophy Husband Sweepstakes. Your chance to be a kept man. Every boy’s dream.”

  I look at Julia, then Hayden. “Sweepstakes? Is this a sweepstakes now?”

  Julia rolls her eyes. “Hello? It’s like the biggest sweepstakes there is.”

  The thought flickers through my mind that this thing is taking on a life of its own. Calling the quest a “sweepstakes?” This has gone well beyond little old me. It’s like a bullet train, hurtling through town after town, picking up passengers, gaining speed. I might as well be hosting a reality show online, a contest for my next mate.

  Then again, that kind of is what I am doing, letting viewers pick the dates. Earlier in the week, the national talk show host Helen even mentioned my pursuit on air.

  So we pass out cards, and chat up guys, and the whole thing has an air of crazy fun, and I suppose it has to, because I know in some ways I have to keep a distance from the reality of it. I prefer the unreality of the contest. But even as I talk to other guys, I’m only thinking about one guy. The one who called. The one who kissed me. The one I wouldn’t mind seeing again.

  “Where’s Erin? She’s supposed to be meeting us,” Hayden shouts, and I reach for my phone and send Erin a quick text: Hey, you going to join us for this girls night out or what?

  I lay my phone on the table and seconds later, it buzzes. I click on the envelope icon. But it’s not from Erin. It’s from Chris. Turns out I didn’t write to Erin. I wrote to Chris accidentally since his was the last call I received, Erin’s the second to last.

  Tempted, but I am pretty sure my presence is verboten. Where, may I ask, are the festivities?

  “What’d she say?” Hayden asks, peering through her tortoise-shell glasses to try to read the message.

  “Not Erin,” I say, as I quickly type a response: So sorry, meant to write to my girlfriend Erin. We’re on Fillmore. I pause for a second, wondering where he lives, wondering if I should ask. After all, he managed to weave in a question in his text message. That’s what you do when you want the volley to continue. So I add: What are you up to?

  I hit send. Then I click back to the main screen and look at Hayden and Julia. “Are you all done with your messaging now? You think you can focus on us?” Hayden asks.

  “Um, yeah,” I say, feeling a little sheepish. I don’t like when people spend more time on their phones than with the actual company they’re keeping. I’ve always believed in focusing on real people and not the electronic tethers to what I might be missing, like Chris, who is somewhere in this city, somewhere near me…

  I shake my head, clearing my thoughts, restoring a tabula rasa to my brain. I may have a wicked crush on him, but I can’t let myself get swept up. The viewers might not choose him. They might not vote for him as one of the five finalists. Besides, we’re business partners trying to grow our shows. That’s all. We’re playing a game, nothing more.

  Erin comes rushing in, a torrent of energy, decked out in tight black jeans, a pink and gray argyle short-sleeve sweater and gigantic pink plastic earrings in the shape of squares. She sits down in a huff, pushes a hand through her spiky hair, and says, “I need a drink. You will never believe what happened to me tonight.”

  She motions to the waiter and orders a vodka straight up. “My VIP client wanted a happy ending.”

  “What?” I say, shocked.

  “A happy ending. He asked for a happy ending. Does he think we’re running a fucking bordello?”

  “Jesus, Erin. Why would he do that?”

  “Evidently, one of the other girls, Karen, has been giving him happy endings, that’s why. So when he booked for tonight, the receptionist didn’t hear him right when he made his special request for Karen.” The waiter, exceedingly prompt, returns with Erin’s drink. She reaches for it instantly and downs about half the glass. “So she assumed it was me because our names sound similar. Anyway, so as I finish the massage, he taps his hip. I pretend I don’t see it. He taps his hip again and says, ‘Karen always finishes me off. Can you?’”

  She takes another drink, then practically slams her glass down.

  “Ugh. That is so gross,” Julia says.

  We commiserate with her for a few more minutes, and then Julia regales us with her craziest work stories, and soon Erin has downed another glass.

  I excuse myself for the restroom. Once inside, I reach for my phone again. I don’t want them to know I’m texting with Chris. Not when they’re having such a good time playing the game too. Besides, Chris is just playing the game as well, I tell myself. I can’t let myself get too fixated on one guy, even though I want to. Especially since there’s a new message from him, and his name alone on my screen thrills me. Testing out the new Ajax Extra car racing game. It sucks…Where are the girls tonight?

  He asked me another question. He likes chatting with me. And I like chatting with him so much it’s starting to scare me. But in a good way. In the way that makes my mouth curve into a smile and my skin tingle.

  We’re making the rounds on Fillmore Street. What part of the city do you live in?

  I hit send, tuck the phone in my purse and return to Erin. During my short bathroom trip, she’s managed to acquire another vodka and she’s quickly necking this one back.

  Then we leave and we blanket nearby bars, laughing like college girls playing pranks, as we hand out Trophy Husband flyers at The Pink Pantry, Cosmo Pete’s, Akimbo and Car 282. People are getting a kick out of the contest, saying they love how it turns the tables. That’s the point, and I love it when people get the point I’m making.

  But I am also feeling pretty good because Chris and I have been texting all night. And even though I’ve only consumed two beers in two hours, his notes are giving me a little buzz of their own.

  Erin, however, has been drinking enough for the four of us. I lost count of how many she’s polished off. She’s pretty sloshed, laughing her ass off at nearly everything and bobbing and weaving as she heads to the restroom, now that we’re back at our home base of the Tiki Bar, mission accomplished many times over.

  “What are we going to do about her?” Hayden asks, pointing to the ladies room. “She drove here from work.”r />
  “We need to take her home, obviously.”

  “I need to head back anyway since Lena will be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow. So we’ll all just catch a cab and drop her off?”

  “Yeah, and I guess she’ll just get her car tomorrow,” I say, then reach into my purse once more when I feel my phone vibrate. The girls are chatting amongst themselves now, so I figure I can get away with a quick reply to Chris. Provided it’s Chris. I hope it’s Chris. How’s the night going? Will it be an all nighter?

  I tap back: Wrapping up soon. What are you doing?

  The girls chatter more. Chris replies almost instantly.

  Closing shop for the night. No more games. I’m ready for more rules. You?

  Rules? Is he asking to see me? I glance quickly at my friends, then at Erin, zigzagging her way back to the table, her eyes a little loopy from the liquor.

  She plops down, resting her head on my shoulder. I pet her short, spiky hair. “Hey, babe. We’re all going to share a cab and get you home safely.”

  She springs up. “What about my car?” She’s got a look of sheer terror in her eyes.

  “Erin, we’ll come get it tomorrow.”

  She shakes her head emphatically. “No, no, no. Pete will freak out if I leave the car on Fillmore overnight. He’s always worried that cars will be towed or vandalized.”

  “Erin, are you nuts? Pete will be fine with the car.”

  “No, no, no,” she says again, adamant. Then she looks at me with big puppy dog eyes. “Please, McKenna. Please take my car home tonight. You have a two-car garage. Please. You’re not drunk. Please drive my car home. Please.”

  “Erin,” I say patiently. “Sweetie, I had two drinks. I can’t drive for another hour.”

  “Take it home in an hour then, please?”

  Then it hits me. Rules. Hour. You. I hold up a finger, telling Erin to wait. I reach for my phone again, tapping back a reply. Can you meet me at Tiki Bar in 15 minutes? I’m still not even sure he was asking me for a drink. But I’m seizing the moment. I’m making the most of my night out before a heavy week of dating starts. His yes arrives seconds later. So I help hail a cab for Hayden and Erin, then wait for another one for Julia since she lives in the opposite direction.

  “It’s just you and me, sis,” Julia says, looping her arm through mine.

  Uh oh. I thought Julia was leaving too. “Um, Julia,” I begin, feeling my face turning red as I try to think of ways to politely ask her to get the hell out of here.

  She looks at me, wide-eyed, her jaw open, seeing right through me. She pokes my chest. “You’re meeting a boy!”

  “No,” I say quickly. Then I change my tune. “Actually, yes.”

  She holds up a hand for a high-five. “You work fast!”

  “Actually. He’s that video game guy. You know the one who talked up my show last week and sent all those guys to me?”

  Julia gives me a quizzical look. “He’s twenty-three?”

  “Yeah, can you believe it?”

  “Weird, he seemed more like our age. But cool. He wants in on the action?”

  “Um, yeah, as it turns out. He’s a fun guy, liked the contest, so he wanted to join in too.”

  “But I thought you were saying he kind of ran a big video game empire or something?”

  What is this – Twenty Questions?

  “Yeah. So?”

  “I just figured a Trophy Husband doesn’t work. You know, because trophy wives don’t work. But heck, what do I know? You’re making the rules up as you go along, you’re a pioneer! You’re blazing a trail to a world teeming with Trophy Husbands!”

  “That’s me. The pioneer,” I say dryly.

  She wags a finger at me. “Just remember. Twenty-three and under. Only younger guys.”

  “Totally. Of course. I took the oath. I’d never break it.”

  “You better not.” She raises her hand and waves frantically at a nearby cab.

  “I won’t,” I say with a fake smile. I have just lied to my sister, to my awesome amazing sister who I love. I have just lied to her face about Chris’ age. About the oath I took. The girlfriend oath that I’m breaking. Then, I remind myself that Chris is not going to be the winner. This little thing we have going on is a business deal, a promotional partnership. It’s a game. That’s all it is. A game. Still, I feel a little creepy, a little conniving for telling a lie.

  A taxi pulls up.

  “Have fun with video game guy. And hey, you’re driving. So order a Diet Coke, okay?”

  “Obviously. Diet Coke and me, we’re like this,” I say as I twist my index and middle fingers together.

  She gives me a quick kiss and a hug, and then I return to where the evening started. When I walk back in Chris is sitting at the table in the corner, smiling at me. All my icky feelings fade.

  Chapter Twelve

  “So is this like an officially sanctioned date?” Chris asks playfully after the waitress brings us two Diet Cokes.

  I press a finger to my lips. “Shh…”

  “So this date is off the record then?”

  “A secret date,” I whisper. “A secret business date with the first Trophy Husband candidate.”

  “We don’t even know if I’ll make the cut.”

  “You will so make the cut. How could you not?”

  “The odds are one in four, McKenna. And that’s just for the first round, for the initial date.”

  “You’ll get there. I’m not worried.”

  “I guess I’m getting a leg up on the others right now.”

  “You are indeed.”

  “Speaking of legs up, I was thinking we should still probably shoot that promo.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “One, I have access to the studio and my videographer is on retainer with the network show so it won’t cost us anything. And two, it’s sort of like a fallback. What if I don’t make the cut?”

  “You will!”

  “But, just in case. And, even if I am one of the five, your viewers might not pick me for a second date. So, we’d have to resort to the old-fashioned way to keep promoting each other, with promos, know what I mean? Because I definitely think there are great synergies between our shows –”

  I cut him off. “Did you actually just say synergies?”

  He rolls his eyes, aware of his faux pas. “Fuck, I did.”

  “That is like the ultimate corporate marketing term.”

  “I know, I know. That is so embarrassing,” he says, then pauses. “But, it’s not nearly as embarrassing as you not having played Guitar Hero until two days ago. I mean, I had to teach you a game they don’t even make any more.”

  “What can I say? I’m a throwback. I like vintage tees and old standards for music.”

  “What’s your favorite old standard ever?”

  “Ever? As in all time?”

  “Well, yeah. That would be ever.”

  “It’s totally cheesy. You’ll laugh.”

  “Try me.”

  I take a deep breath. “Can’t Help Falling in Love by Elvis.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, and I tense. Have I scared him? Does he think that means I’m some crazy, clingy girl?

  Then he leans into me, and presses his forehead against mine. He is so damn cute, it’s killing me. “That is an awesome song,” he says in a soft voice, and I can barely take it anymore, being this close to him. I want him to kiss me again so badly, it’s like an ache that longs to be soothed. I want him to run his hands in my hair, to pull me closer, to savor my lips on his. The desire to be near him is so overwhelming that it’s fogging my brain, and all I’m seeing, thinking, feeling is this wish to erase any distance between us. I have to pull away. If I stay any closer, I will fall into his arms, and God only knows what kind of hurt I’d be setting myself up for.

  “So yeah, let’s shoot a promo this week,” I say, and like that – now you see it, now you don’t – I am back-to-business McKenna.

  We spend the next
fifteen minutes sketching out ideas, then we move on to other topics, trading tales from college, telling stories of favorite concerts we have been to. He loves live music and tells me he has been to 227 concerts in his life.

  “You count?”

  He nods proudly.

  “You actually count?”

  “I keep a piece of paper in my desk listing every concert I have ever been to.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the engineer in me, McKenna. What can I say? I like to count, to keep track of things.”

  “I so need to get a hold of that piece of paper.”

  “And for that I am keeping my desk under lock and key when you come over.”

  “Hey, where do you live? You never told me.”

  “Russian Hill. Corner of Polk and Green.”

  “I love that neighborhood. There is a great little kitschy gift shop a few blocks north on Polk Street where I got this ring,” I say, then hold out my right hand. A silver band with pink and white flowers etched on it is on my index finger. A half dozen thin black plastic bangles rattle a bit on my wrist. Chris reaches for my hand, gently touching the ring. His fingertips graze the top of my hand as he moves along from my finger to my wrist, touching my bracelets now. I am hypnotized with his touch, tugged into an orbit around him, because he is the focal point of my body and mind right now. His hands are strong and soft and they make my skin warm all over, as if I’ve been lying out in the sun, soaking in the delicious rays. He strokes the inside of my wrist so briefly, but enough for a tiny whimper to escape my lips as my mind flashes forward to other things he might be able to do with his hand. I press my thighs together, so I don’t grab his hands and test my theories.

  “You know, McKenna,” he says, rubbing his thumb and forefinger along one of my bangles. For a second, I think he’s going to say something about my penchant for accessories. But instead, he kind of nods at my tee-shirt, at the crown hanging off the last letter in the name of the “Scottish Play.”