Izzy As Is

by Tracie Banister

  “You’d better do what Rihanna says and ‘ball out,’ bro. Or did you want to forfeit the game?”

  “Hell no, I’m not forfeiting. Just remember, you asked for this.”

  He plants his feet way too far apart and squats down, then starts doing the most herky jerky booty pop I’ve ever seen, completely off time to the music. When Rihanna starts moaning about how all she sees is dollar signs, Z pretends to make it rain with a fake pile of cash, which totally cracks me up.

  “Stop, stop!” I beg him, but my pleas just encourage him to up the ridiculous ante. The next thing I know he’s twerked his way over to the couch where he looks like he’s dry humping the cushioned arm while acting out more of the lyrics. (When Rihanna talks about her fragrance and how people love the way it smells, he pretends to spritz some on, then he takes a whiff of his arm pit and gives me a double thumbs up.) At this point, I’m laughing so hard I can’t even breathe and tears are streaming down my face. Thankfully, the song ends before I start hyperventilating.

  When Z sits back down opposite me, looking very pleased with himself, I say, “That was epic in its awfulness,” as I swipe at the wetness on my face with the back of my hand. “Miley Cyrus is weeping somewhere.”

  He chuckles. “Probably. And now that I’ve humiliated myself, it’s your turn. Truth or dare?”

  I already did a dare, so . . . “Truth, and make it a good one.”

  Zane purses his lips and crinkles his brow, which is his thinking face. This is not going to be easy for him because he already knows almost everything about me: biggest fear, worst date, favorite ice cream flavor, if I have any tatts or piercings, what turns me off, who was the first boy I ever kissed, etcetera, etcetera.

  “What was your first impression of me?”

  Huh, okay, I wasn’t expecting that. Now I have to think back to that photo shoot four years ago . . .

  “To be honest, I didn’t notice you right off the bat because I was distracted by the three oiled-up, shirtless hunks who were doing the shoot with me. But then, when Esteban had you change the backdrop and reposition the lights, you handed me a cold bottle of coconut water and whispered in my ear that I should watch out for the male model in the blue swimtrunks because he was trying to steal focus by flexing his muscles and winking at the camera in every shot. And later in the day, you warned me that I was on the verge of a nip slip, which no one else had bothered to point out. So, I thought, ‘This is a really nice guy who cares about his job and is looking out for me.’”

  “And that’s why you invited me to join you and your friends for dinner that night?”

  “Yeah, it was my way of saying thanks—”

  “Even though you didn’t pick up the tab and you called me ‘Boy Band’ the entire evening,” he reminds me.

  “I did not!”

  Okay, maybe I did. I’ve never been that great with names and when Zane told me his, I connected it with One Direction, which Zain Malik was a member of back then. By the time I saw him at dinner several hours later, I couldn’t remember which of the five guys in that group he shared a name with, so I just went with the generic “Boy Band.”

  “You totally did. Something else I remember about that first night we hung out together is you saying, after a few mojitos, ‘Don’t fall in love with me, Boy Band. It’s never gonna happen; you’re not my type.’”

  “Ouch!” I exclaim, with an exaggerated wince. “Friend zoned before you even got a chance to hit on me. That was rough.”

  Z’s eyebrow shoots up. “Who said I was going to hit on you?”

  “Why wouldn’t you? I mean, come on.” I wave a hand up and down my bodacious form, which I know from experience is completely irresistible. “But I liked you, so I decided to head you off at the pass and save you from any heartache.”

  “Very altruistic,” he replies dryly.

  “I thought so. And that night was the beginning of our fabulous friendship, which has lasted way longer than any of my romantic relationships.”

  “That’s not saying much, but . . .”

  I punch Z on his bare bicep, and he snickers.

  “Your turn, and I’m going to choose truth for you because I still haven’t recovered from your execution of that last dare. You’ve pretty much ruined twerking for me.”

  “Truth, it is.” Placing his elbows on his knees, he leans forward and locks eyes with me. “Lay it on me.”

  There is something I’ve been dying to know and Zane probably wouldn’t give me a straight answer if I asked him this under normal circumstances, but he’s bound by the rules of the game now, so . . . “Has Sybil Lyndon tried to get her freak on with you?”

  I expect him to balk at the question, but he just stares back at me, unblinking.

  “Why are you so interested in what’s going on between Sybil and me?” he wonders.

  “Because I’m nosy.”

  “And?”

  “And I know I’m right about her having lecherous designs on you, so I want you to admit that you were wrong when you pooh-poohed the idea.”

  Zane has been close-mouthed on the subject of Sybil for the last few weeks, although he’s continued to spend time with her, and it’s really been bugging me. Either she’s playing a long game with him and has yet to make her move (doubtful), or my gullible, too-nice-for-his-own-good friend has been seduced over to The Dark Side. (The Dark Side = Sybil’s bedroom where she has to dim all the lights so that her much younger victims can’t see the telltale signs of all the nips and tucks her plastic surgeon has made.)

  “I’m gonna pass on this one. Give me another question.”

  “Nope. Sorry. The game doesn’t work that way. Why don’t you want to answer the Sybil question? What are you hiding?” The flashlight is right next to me, so I switch it on and shine the light in Z’s face.

  He straightens up, moving away from the bright beam. “Is this a game, or an interrogation?” he asks. “What about my Miranda rights?”

  “In Truth or Dare, there are only Izzy rights as in I have a right to know the answer to my question. So, spill.” I stick the flashlight in his face for a second time.

  “Someone’s been watching Shades of Blue again.” Z pushes the flashlight to the side so that it’s not glaring directly into his eyes.

  I shrug. “Gotta support JLo. Now, stop stalling and answer the question.” I poke him in the chest with my finger.

  “Jesus, you’re relentless. Maybe I’ll just forfeit.”

  “Not an option.”

  “It was earlier.”

  “Rules change when you get deeper into the game.” I just made that up, but I’m not letting him weasel out of this.

  “Fine,” he relents, “but I’m only telling you this under duress and it stays between the two of us; no running off to share the info with your cocktail klatch.”

  “¡Ay, Dios mío!” I throw my hands in the air. “You’re sleeping with that old bag of brittle bones and silicone.”

  “What?” Zane looks both shocked and appalled by the accusation. “No! Sybil might be an attractive woman—”

  “That’s debatable.”

  “But,” he gives me a quelling look, “I turned her down flat when she expressed interest in collaborating with me on the, uh, personal front.”

  Expressed interest. Personal front. “So, she put her hand down your pants and propositioned you.”

  His cheeks flame up. “Something like that,” he admits sheepishly.

  “Yes!” I raise a triumphant fist in the air. “I called it, right from the beginning. Gimme a ‘C!’ I make the letter with my arms. “Gimme an ‘O!’ Gimme a ‘U!’ Gimme a ‘G!’”

  “All right, all right.” Zane waves his hand to get me to stop. “You’re only allowed a partial gloat because you were wrong about Sybil only being willing to help me with my career in exchange for sexual favors. She understood my reasons for saying ‘no’ to us getting physical and she’s continued to support me in all the ways she promised she would. She really value
s my opinion on the work of other artists, and it’s nice to have a friend who shares my love of photography and can offer constructive feedback on my shots.”

  “You’re sure she’s not just waiting you out, hoping you’ll change your mind about getting busy?”

  “No.” He’s quite adamant about this. “Now, let’s move on. Since you picked truth for me and got all up in my business with your question, I’m going to do the same.”

  That sounded a little bit like a threat. I can’t think of anything Z could ask me that I’d be unwilling to answer, though. I’ve always been an open book with him. In fact, he’s often accused me of oversharing. (When you’re hooking up with a guy who has three balls, you have to tell someone! That’s like some Ripley’s Believe It or Not shit.)

  “Fine by me. Ask away.” I meet his amber-colored gaze straight on to let him know he can throw any question at me and I won’t shy away from answering it. I am all about the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, which is why I rock so hard at this game.

  To my surprise, he takes my left hand and lifts it so that my big, honkin’ diamond is suspended in the air between us. What the significance of this move is I’m not sure. Is Zane going to ask me if this sparkly rock is real? I have a certificate of authenticity if he doubts it.

  “What are you doing, Iz? Why are you marrying a man you don’t love?”

  Uh oh . . .

  CHAPTER 31

  I pull my hand, which suddenly feels very clammy, out of his and play dumb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Eduardo’s great, the kind of man every woman dreams of finding and spending the rest of her life with. I can’t imagine a more perfect husband.”

  “I see. So, the perfect husband in your mind is one who shows more interest in his work than you, who doesn’t want to get to know the people you’re close to, who leaves you alone and/or ignores you for long stretches of time, and who can’t be bothered to show up and support you at a family event that’s really important to you?”

  “You’re judging Eduardo on a few isolated incidents—”

  “Isolated?” He snort laughs. “What I just described has been your life since you started dating Eduardo, and if you think it’s going to change or get any better after you marry him, you are kidding yourself. Eduardo’s passion is clearly his job, not you.”

  “Not true!” I retort hotly because what he said is uncomfortably close to being spot on. “Eduardo adores me; he’s always telling me how beautiful and sexy I am.”

  Zane shakes his head disparagingly. “If that’s all he’s come away with after being in an intimate relationship with you for months, then he’s even more shallow and obtuse than I thought. The man you marry should recognize and appreciate all the things that make you special—your quick mind, your snarky sense of humor, your fieriness, your unpredictability, your fierce loyalty to the people you care about, your incredible zest for life and how you try to wring every ounce of pleasure you can out of it.”

  Z really does know me inside and out, but that’s because he’s been exposed to the many wonderful facets of my Izzyness for four years while Eduardo’s only had four months, so it’s not fair to compare the two. “Just because Eduardo’s not composing haikus that liken my spiritual essence to a zeppelin doesn’t mean he only values my superficial qualities.”

  “A zephyr,” Z corrects me on what his poetry-writing ex, Lucy, once equated his essence to. “It’s a gentle breeze.”

  “Whatever,” I say irritably. “The point is that Eduardo is a man of action, not words. He doesn’t have to wax rhapsodic about me to show he cares.”

  “If Eduardo’s behavior is the best indicator of his feelings for you, then you shouldn’t even be dating him much less marrying him. The way he acted at your engagment photo shoot—”

  I groan with frustration. “Not this again! Why are you so hung up on that day? You’ve had a hate on for Eduardo ever since it happened.”

  “Because it pissed me off!” Zane exclaims with unusual vehemence, then clamps his mouth shut and clenches his jaw as if he’s trying to keep more harsh words from escaping. He drops his head and sighs before continuing, “When you announced your engagement to Eduardo after knowing him for just a few months, I was shocked because it was so out of character for you, but then I thought, ‘Izzy must really love this guy to be willing to make a serious commitment like this,’ and naturally, I assumed he felt the same way about you. That illusion was shattered when I saw the two of you at that photo shoot and it was painfully clear that Eduardo doesn’t love you, and you sure as hell don’t love him. On a day when all the newly engaged couples I’ve ever worked with have been totally wrapped up in each other and radiating happiness, you and your husband-to-be were just going through the motions. Is that really how you want to spend the next forty or fifty years of your life? Pasting a smile on your face and pretending your relationship with Eduardo is something it’s not?”

  It’s my turn to expel a beleaguered breath.

  “Has it ever occurred to you that not everyone wants the same things out of a relationship, or marriage, that you do? You’re one of those touchy-feely romantics who wants to connect with a partner on some deep, spiritual level, but that emotional bond isn’t something that’s a must-have for me. I’m pragmatic. When I met Eduardo, what I saw wasn’t a potential soul mate, it was an opportunity and I would have been a fool not to take advantage of it.”

  There; I was honest with him, which felt good. Having to fake that Eduardo and I were some kind of love match all these months just so Zane wouldn’t think less of me has been a lot of work. The truth is out now, so let the chips (or Cheetos) fall where they may.

  Z gazes at me thoughtfully for a moment, then declares, “I get it. You lost the career that validated you and made you feel like you were worth something, along with your only source of income, and you were scared. Eduardo was the first lifeboat that passed by, so you grabbed on to him and held on for dear life, thinking he was your only hope of a financially stable future.”

  Aw, crap. He’s being all sweet and understanding. That’s almost worse than him telling me I should be ashamed of myself for marrying for money instead of love. Why does he have to be so darn nice? He believes in me more than I believe in myself, he’s always there for me (I’m sure he had better things to do than hang out at a kid’s birthday party last Saturday and I didn’t even pay him for taking those pictures!), and he thinks I’m awesome—flaws and all. This realization makes me wonder why I’ve been giving the cold shoulder to decent, kindhearted guys like Zane all these years. Maybe I thought they weren’t exciting enough, or they’d want more than I was willing to give. Bad boys and narcissistic alpha males were just easier, I guess. And now I’m marrying one of the latter because . . .

  “Eduardo is a good provider, and he’s incredibly generous. I haven’t wanted for anything since we got together.” Well, except for his time and attention, but who cares, right? If that old saying is to be believed, familiarity just breeds contempt.

  “You know who else is a good provider?” Zane asks. “Kenneth Lyndon, Sybil’s husband,” he answers the question without giving me a chance to respond. “He bought her a big estate in a gated community in Bal Harbour, a garage full of luxury cars, and so much priceless jewelry she has to keep all the pieces locked in a vault that can only be opened with a retinal scan. He even bought her an art gallery so that she’d have something productive to do with her time. What he doesn’t give her is companionship. He’s away on business trips half the year and Sybil said she barely sees him when he is in town and when she does, he’s always preoccupied with matters he considers to be more important than her. She’s desperately lonely and starved for affection, which is why she’s always looking to other men to fill that void for her.”

  “She needs a shrink, or better yet, a divorce. Why stay with a man who treats you so badly?”

  When Zane raises an eyebrow, I exclaim, “It’s not the same for Eduardo and m
e! He would never lose interest in me the way Sybil’s husband has with her. I know how to keep a man happy and coming back for more.”

  Okay, so I did have to ambush Eduardo at his office and dress like a Frederick’s of Hollywood model in order to get some action today and even then I wasn’t able to close the deal, but that was an anomaly . . . or was it? I have been feeling like an afterthought in his life for a while now.

  “Of course, you do,” Zane reaches out and takes my hands again, “but it’s tough to compete with the demands of a multimillion-dollar business and I just don’t want to see you end up like Sybil. Despite all the stuff she has, her life is empty because she’s not being fulfilled emotionally, and it’s incredibly sad.”

  It’s hard for me to work up any sympathy for the woman when she probably wipes with 24-karat gold toilet paper, but that’s okay because Zane seems to have enough compassion for the both of us. He’s worried about Sybil, he’s worried about me, and he’s being very intense about it, which is strangely hot. Also hot, the way his right thumb is casually stroking the inside of my wrist. I’m not sure he even realizes he’s doing it, but his touch is sending a ripple of warmth up my arm, making it feel all noodly.

  “Not that sad,” I say, my eyes fixed on his. “She has you, doesn’t she? You listen to all her moaning and groaning about her sexless marriage, which is probably a good outlet for her, and you geek out over art stuff together. She’s lucky to have a caring and supportive friend like you in her life. I am, too.”

  A smile plays at the corners of Zane’s mouth. “Are my ears playing tricks on me, or did you just say I was the world’s most amazing friend?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth,” I chastise him. “I didn’t say anything about you being amazing.”

  “But you implied it with that compliment.” He grins, which seems to illuminate the gold flecks in his eyes. “And for the record, I think you’re amazing, too.” Lifting the hand that’s attached to my noodly arm, he gently presses his lips to my palm and all I can think is how I’d like to feel those lips on my mouth.