Trophy Husband

by Lauren Blakely

  I stand up and shake his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, McKenna.” Then he gestures to the counter. “May I get you a coffee, latte, hot chocolate?”

  At the rate I’m plowing through caffeine, I’ll be immune to the stuff pretty soon. He gets a latte, I order another coffee, and he carries them back to our chairs.

  “I’m glad I made the cut,” Jean Paul Peter begins.

  “I’m glad you made the cut too, Jean Paul Peter.”

  He holds up a hand. “You can just call me JP.”

  I wipe my forehead in the mock “whew” gesture. “Jean Paul Peter is a mouthful of a name.”

  I spend the next thirty minutes chatting with JP. I learn that JP grew up in Florida, played football in high school, studied communications in college, and now at the ripe old age of twenty-two, he works as an assistant for a sports marketing firm. He’s perfect. Truly perfect. He would be a perfect man for some woman.

  “So JP, you’re in sports marketing. What do you want to do with that?”

  “Nothing really. I want to be a ski instructor. I try to go every weekend. Leaning in and out, speeding down the hill,” he says, moving his sturdy frame a bit from side to side as if to demonstrate how to ski. “I would love to get a place in Tahoe and set up camp there and spend all day on the slopes, teaching people how to ski and skiing myself.”

  He wants a place in Tahoe. That means he wants me to get him a place in Tahoe. That’s what the Sugar Daddies do for their ladies. They get them lakefront property, weekend getaways, houses in Hawaii. Apparently, that’s what Trophy-Husbands-to-be expect from their Sugar Mamas too.

  I realize for the first time that two people are playing the game. It’s not just me taking Dave and Steely Dan Duran out for test drives, unbeknownst to them. Everything is on the table now. The candidates know the game is on and they’re here because they want a meal ticket. I’m no longer the only one with requirements. They have their prerequisites too. JP wants a woman with money, a woman who can set him up, a woman who can make him a kept man so he can play on the slopes all day.

  “So that’s why you’re in this contest, huh?”

  “Excuse me?”

  I strip the chit-chattery veneer away as I shut off the iCam. “To get a house in Tahoe, right? That’s why you want to be a Trophy Husband?”

  “Oh, that? Well, I like you, McKenna. I am having an excellent time with you. And I just believe in trying new things. And I thought this would be a fun way to meet someone.”

  “Someone who can set you up with a house in Tahoe?”

  “Uh, well. You have always kind of said that you were looking for a kept man. And frankly I wouldn’t mind being kept. So I thought I’d give this a shot.”

  “Right, of course.”

  I feel a momentary sense of kinship for the well-to-do older man who scouts out a trophy wife. Does he ever wonder if his woman is using him, if she only loves him for his money? Or maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe I need to be more like a man and not care.

  But I don’t feel that way. I do care. I do care about someone. A lot.

  And I have no idea what to do with these feelings. The last time I felt this way, I was about to walk down the aisle, and then went on to have my heart smashed.

  * * *

  The letter from Todd’s lawyer arrives this afternoon. He is no longer contesting custody of the dog. I pump my fist in victory, but something about this feels empty. Or maybe it’s just that I feel that way right now.

  Empty.

  Chapter Fourteen

  There’s a knock on my door. It’s ten p.m.

  These two facts should not occur simultaneously.

  Fortunately, I have a dog who knows her job. Ms. Pac-Man emits a thunderous growl, then hits the repeat button on her vocal cords as she races to the front door, lifting her snout high in the air to express her displeasure at a late-night houseguest.

  I stay low on my couch and wait for Ms. Pac-Man to stop. I make a mental note to buy her meat bones tomorrow as a reward for being the best guard dog. She keeps growling and then I hear a familiar voice over her practically lion-like roars.

  “McKenna, it’s Andy!”

  I hop up from the couch, run downstairs, and open the door. I expect him to be all disheveled, maybe with a cut on his face or something. But he’s normal Andy, dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt from Tokyo.

  I hold my hands out. “Happy to see you, but what the hell are you doing banging on my door at ten o’clock?”

  “Can I come in?”

  I gesture for him to enter. He does. I shut the door.

  “Diet Coke?”

  He nods and follows me into the kitchen. I open the fridge and hand him a cool, cold can. I get one for myself too. He opens his, I open mine, and we stand there, like two gunfighters, caffeinated weapons at our side, waiting to draw.

  “You scared the shit out of me. What can I do for you?”

  “We have to talk.”

  “Okay.”

  “Look, I know I’ve been a jerk these last few weeks. But the fact is, I think you’re better than all this Trophy Husband stuff.”

  I lean against the counter. “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t need a husband. You don’t even need a boyfriend. You’re amazing as is. I love working with you, and I love being your friend, and you’re beautiful and smart and funny, and I hate watching you make a fool of yourself week after week.”

  “A fool?” I repeat. “I’m making a fool of myself week after week?”

  Andy swallows and nods hard. “Yes, you are.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “And just how am I making a fool of myself?”

  “Because you don’t even like these guys. I watch the videos you send. I edit them. And I can tell you’re not into them. The only time you ever seem interested is whenever you talk about that Video Game Guy. Chris.”

  I blush. It’s as if I’ve been caught.

  “So why are you still doing this?”

  “Because…” Suddenly the words aren’t coming to me. Suddenly the reasons are escaping me. Suddenly I am trying to tap into my well of anger and I am coming up dry. Maybe I have no more fight left.

  “See?” Andy says, softly this time. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You don’t even know why you’re doing this anymore.” He reaches for my Diet Coke and hands it to me. “Take a drink.”

  I do as I’m told, enjoying a long, cold, bubbly gulp.

  “I’m doing this because I want to show that women can do what men do. I want to even the score. I want to set things right.”

  “Right for who?”

  “For everyone!”

  “McKenna, it’s over with Todd. He doesn’t care what you do. He doesn’t care if you prove him wrong. I doubt Amber cares either.”

  “It’s not even about them anymore. I’m just trying to make a point,” I say a little petulantly. As I do, I notice for the first time how ridiculous I sound.

  “I just don’t think this is a point worth making. Because this isn’t just a point, McKenna. This is your life. It’s not a game. It’s not a show. It’s your heart. You don’t need a Trophy Husband to prove Todd was a dick for marrying Amber. Todd is a dick and nothing you ever do will disprove that. He will be a dick for time immemorial. He will go to his grave being a dick. The dude committed the ultimate crass and cruel act. But you know what? You don’t have to find a husband on the Internet to prove you are better than a cheating scum! You are better than a cheating scum.”

  I run a hand through my hair, holding it tight against my scalp.

  “Do you really want to marry JP or Joshua? Do you want to marry someone who wants to be a Trophy Husband? Someone who wants you because it’s a fun game? Because you’re loaded? Do you want someone who wants you for your money or for all that makes you totally fucking rock star fashion hound awesome?”

  I don’t answer at first because my instinct is to blow him off. To scoff. To hold up a hand and say whatever. But something about his question
s have pierced their way through my Teflon. They’ve hit me inside, where it matters.

  I’ve always seen a Trophy Husband as, well, to be honest – sort of like a little pet. Like a little pet I’d keep and feed and water and allow out on certain occasions. Not a person, not a lover, and maybe not even a friend. But that’s what I really want. Someone who wants me for me. Someone who loves me for me. Someone who wants to take a chance on all that I am.

  I look back at Andy. His eyes are sharp and focused, with so much passion in them. Passion as a friend. He’s not here as my “employee.” He’s here, late at night, because he’s my friend, and he cares. My throat hitches, because I’m so damn lucky to have friends who knock sense into me late at night. I didn’t know how badly I needed this until he said those words. But I do. I do need this because I’m just doing the same thing I’ve done the last several months. I’m firing bullets at bad guys, when I should be tending to the wounds. Stitching up. Moving on.

  “Do you even want a husband? Do you want to be married in a contest?”

  “No,” I croak quietly.

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “No, Andy. I don’t want to be married, I don’t want a Trophy Husband, I want someone who loves me,” I say, then I cover my eyes with my hand so Andy won’t see that I’m starting to cry. But he can tell anyway, by the way my shoulders are shaking, so he pulls me against him. I bury my face in his tee-shirt. He pets my hair.

  “Hey, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay”

  “How is this going to be okay? How am I going to get myself out of this? What am I going to tell my girlfriends?”

  “They love you, and so do your viewers. We’ll figure it out.”

  “I am an idiot. I am a huge idiot.”

  “No, but you are the most pig-headed person I know.”

  “The most!”

  “The absolute and most.”

  “The most pig-headed, hot-headed, stubborn person in all of San Francisco.”

  He scoffs. “In San Francisco? Try the world, baby”

  I step away and reach for a tissue. I blow my nose. “I’ve made a big mess out of my life.”

  “Why don’t you get some sleep and we’ll figure this out on Monday, okay? Go on that date with the guy you like and we’ll figure this out on Monday.”

  I nod and walk him to the door, then give him a hug.

  On Monday I will go Gershwin & Gershwin in my video blog: Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. It’ll be simple, it’ll be easy. We can now return to our regularly scheduled programming. It’ll be a piece of cake.

  He leaves and I head to my living room, sinking down in the couch, feeling a strange sense of peace. I’m not the same ball of rage I’ve been. Anger doesn’t feel as good anymore. I’ve grown weary of being angry. Tired of being mad.

  I want to feel something else. I want to be able to feel something else. I want to let something else in.

  Someone else.

  That is, if that someone else wants to be let in.

  I reach for my phone. I’m not ready yet to call, but I can send a text. I can manage that much. So I open a note to Chris, and I type.

  I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.

  I hit send, and that small little action feels like the start of a big step.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I spend more time than usual getting ready for my Friday night date. And since I’ve never been one to speed-dress, that means I take a few hours, and I enjoy every single one of the minutes. Tonight’s date with Chris feels like a new beginning. It feels like a real first date, but with someone I’m already sure I like. So I shave my legs, and spread the softest pomegranate lotion into my skin, thinking of how it would feel if Chris’ hands were the ones on my legs. I blow out my hair, imagining his fingers twined in my hair.

  I do my make-up as I listen to all my favorite songs, like I’ve Got a Crush on You and Fly me to the Moon, feeling that sweet possibility in the words. It’s as if I’m living in the lyrics, wrapped up in the hope that they might deliver for me. I even find myself swaying to the words as I swipe on my blush.

  I grab a skirt, a cute little bluish-green corduroy number, pull on my fuchsia boots, then pick a magenta-colored short sleeve sweater, near enough in color to complement the boots, far enough away so as not to be matchy-match. I make my way to my jewelry collection on my bureau. I choose a black necklace with a big black plastic heart on it and a bright pink fake gem in the middle of that. I push a trio of bracelets onto my right wrist – light pink, aqua and light blue. I switch from the lime-green purse to a basic black clutch, say good-bye to my dog, and catch a cab.

  When I get out of the car, I see Chris, five feet in front of me, wearing headphones and holding an iPod. The studio he shoots promos at is near Circa Rose, so he must have walked here. Nerves slam into me. All that warm fuzziness of my alone time flies away, and now I’m faced with the does-he-or-doesn’t-he-like-me dilemma. After all, he didn’t text me back last night. But when he sees me, he smiles and takes the earphones out. His smile warms me.

  “What are you listening to?”

  “A podcast.”

  “On what?”

  “You’re going to laugh.”

  “So make me laugh, Chris McCormick,” I say playfully as we reach Circa Rose.

  “It’s on how to build a car.”

  “You’re going to build a car? Like from scratch?”

  He shrugs. “I’m thinking about it,” he says as he opens the door for me, then pulls out a stool for me when we reach the bar. I sit down, careful to cross my legs. My corduroy skirt isn’t butt-cheek length, but it’s not long either. The bartender appears. I order a grapefruit juice and vodka, Chris a beer. An image flashes through my mind – or maybe it’s my senses – of the taste of beer on his lips. I can sort of taste the cold fizz, the slight chill from the drink, mixed with his breath. And I want to taste it for real. I want to tell him the contest is off. But how do I broach it especially when I don’t know if he feels the same way?

  He taps his iPod. “I’ve got podcasts on how to make your own TV, how to get your computer to go faster, how to build your own Web cam.”

  There’s my entry. A joke to slide into the serious.

  I smack my forehead. “I forgot my iCam. I forgot my computer. I’ve been video recording the dates, so the viewers can vote.”

  “Are you like the biggest dork in the world or what? What about the cat camera I fixed for you?”

  The bartender returns with our drinks. Chris pays immediately before I have the chance to reach into my little black bag.

  “I forgot that too.”

  He laughs and shakes his head, his hair falling in his eyes as he leans closer to me. I so want to reach out and touch his hair, but he never responded to my text last night, so maybe this is all just business for him. I press my palms against the bar, so I don’t start running my fingers through his hair here and now.

  “You could use your phone.”

  “I could. But I don’t want to.”

  “You don’t want to?”

  “No,” I say, and I am nearly paralyzed by nerves. I’m barely able to breathe any more. My chest suddenly feels constricted, as if all my fears are gripping me.

  He tilts his head to the side. “Why? Am I out of the running? You don’t want me to get past the first round.”

  “I totally want you to get past the first round.”

  “So then?”

  There’s a hopeful sound to his voice, but I can’t quite form the words. I don’t know how to give voice to all the feelings that are building inside me. I don’t have to though because he inches his hand across the bar and loops his fingers through mine. As he clasps my hand in his, sparks race through my body, and I find myself leaning closer to him.

  “I don’t want to date you for the cameras,” I say.

  “Do you want to date me not for the cameras?” He squeezes my hand, as he holds my gaze so tight.

>   “Yes. I want to go out with you for you.”

  His eyes light up and his flirty, happy smile matches mine. “I want to go out with you for you too, McKenna.”

  That’s all it takes for that crazy torquing feeling to fade away, and for me to move in closer and trace his top lip with my index finger. “You have really pretty lips,” I say.

  He laughs. “Cute blushing. Pretty lips. Are these compliments?”

  “It’s me. I’m a dork. I don’t know what to say to someone I really like.”

  “So you really like me?”

  “I sent you that text last night, didn’t I?”

  “Well, I didn’t know if it was a business text, like you couldn’t wait to see me for the contest, or if it was more.”

  “That’s why you never responded?”

  He nods. “Yeah, that’s why I never responded. But I couldn’t wait to see you too. You could throw the contest out the window right now and I would still want to date you. I would still want to play video games with you and fix your camera and have dinner with you. And I would still want to take you back to my house. And I would still want to take you out again the next day.”

  “You would?”

  “Yes. I told you I thought you were hot the very first time I met you, and then we talked and you were so much more.”

  “I am?” My heart is ping ponging with happiness inside me.

  “Yeah, you are. You’re tough, and you’re smart, and you’re intensely independent, and you like music, and you’re just this totally cool chick.”

  “So, speaking of music, you got any music on that bad boy or are you just geeking out with your DIY podcasts?”

  “I have many songs. Would you like to see?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have a whole playlist of cover songs,” Chris continues. He touches the menu button and scrolls through to his playlists, tapping on the one for covers. I lean in close to read the names, and he wraps his arm around my waist. It’s such a date gesture and such an unfamiliar one to me, but as his fingertips press against my hip bone, I know I could get used to this with him. I could so get used to the feel of his hands on me, from how he touched my face when we kissed by the car last weekend, to how he played my fingers in the electronics store, and to the way he’s holding me now. It borders on a possessive gesture, as if he’s saying that I’m with him.