Hot For His Girl

by Rachel Blaufeld

  “No reason, sit here.” Leona slides over to the empty seat next to her and makes room for Reid.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sit, sit.” She pats the seat, holding back the drool.

  When he sits, Gabby engages him right away. “Do you like my new shoes? This is good,” she says, cheese strung from her chin. “What are you getting?”

  “That’s a lot of questions. Let’s see.” He looks toward her feet. “Awesome shoes. I bet you run fast in those. Do you think they make them in my size?” Small crinkles form in the corners of his twinkling green eyes—I lose twenty IQ points for even thinking these sappy thoughts—and his mouth turns up. I’m not even going to get into what I feel like doing to those lips.

  “They’re for girls!” Gabby leans close and exclaims, the cheese from her chin now stuck on Reid’s thermal.

  “Gabby, be careful, you’re getting cheese everywhere. I’m sure Reid doesn’t want food all over his clothes,” I finally say.

  “Oh, please, it’s cool. After all, this is pretty good food.” He swipes his hand down his arm, flinging the cheese like it’s nothing, and immediately turns back to my daughter. “I do like their grilled cheese, but with onions and peppers.”

  “Yuck.” Gabby crinkles her nose, I notice from her profile, which is where I’ve been relegated while she entertains Reid.

  “I bet when you’re older, you won’t think yuck. The truth is, Gabby, you can’t eat onions and peppers unless your date does.”

  “Why?”

  Gabby plops her sandwich down and stares at Reid. Leona continues to eat as if it’s her purpose in life.

  “That’s for another day, Gabbs,” I say, letting Reid off the hook.

  “I usually get a chicken cheesesteak with everything on it, so I’m pretty sure that’s what Chef Angelo’s preparing for me.” He points toward the grill.

  I swear Chef Angelo is smirking.

  “So, Andi, how’s it going?” Reid turns his attention to me . . . and my uneaten sandwich.

  My uneaten sandwich and me . . .

  “Are you okay? You’re not eating.” He points at my plate. “Is everything okay? Do I need to grab Angelo?”

  “No, no. Everything’s great. I, uh . . . was letting it cool.”

  “Well, don’t wait on my account. Dive in.”

  It’s so hot in here. I want to blame the grill, but it’s Reid. I know it’s him and his megawatt smile and warm personality heating my belly.

  And other parts.

  Watching him with Gabby is like pulling apart a warm chocolate chip cookie, fresh from the oven, the chocolate soft and gooey. This is the second time I’ve equated Reid to chocolate goodness. I should eat a candy bar and get over him.

  I take a bite of my veggie sub, dabbing at the corners of my mouth with a napkin. In the background, the old-fashioned jukebox switches tunes. “Dream Weaver,” a song from even before my time, radiates through the sandwich shop.

  Reid turns to me. “Great song.”

  He’s so close, I can see little flecks of gold surrounding his pupils. I’m in a hypnotic trance.

  “Ick,” Gabby says, ruining the moment.

  “Wow,” Reid says. “One yuck and now an ick. I’m really striking out with you.”

  She giggles. Gabby, Little Miss Obstinate, Little Miss Argue Over Everything, simply giggles.

  “Here you go.” Angelo saves the day and slides a sandwich in front of Reid.

  “Dig in.” Reid encourages me to eat again as he picks up his monstrosity and takes a bite as if nothing is happening between us.

  I want to turn to Gabby and say, “This is why you don’t want a man. Don’t need a man. They make everything weird.”

  But I don’t.

  The kid is cute, and she’s the only female talking to me right now. The neighbor is wolfing down her food with a purpose, and Andi is mostly quiet. I wonder if it’s me or if Andi’s always this way—quiet, private, guarded—as I tuck into my sandwich.

  Earlier, I found myself home alone and not wanting to hit the bars. I planned to shop over the weekend, so my fridge is pretty barren. Lucky for me (I think), I decided to hit up Angelo and his cheesesteak, and now I’m not eating alone.

  My conversation with the UAB—Andrea—runs on a constant loop in my head. I like what I do. Love it. So, what the fuck is wrong with doing it?

  I wonder what Andi would think of my blog, and before I can control my dumb fucking mouth, I blurt, “Do you read blogs?”

  I expect Andi to look at me weird, to raise her eyebrows and shake her head. Instead, she chokes on her food.

  At first, she’s coughing. Then there’s no sound.

  After a sharp intake of breath from her, then a short rasp, I jump up. I stand behind Andi, hugging her from behind, jerking her up and down, my fist pressed into her diaphragm. I pull up in fast thrusts, trying to avoid eye contact with a wide-eyed Gabby, who’s snuggled into the neighbor’s bosom.

  I think I hear, “Help Mommy.”

  Then, pop! A piece of bread and a shred of broccoli come flying from Andi’s mouth. She closes her eyes, a tear forms in the corner of her left one, and she takes a long inhale.

  “Mom!” Gabby circles her waist, squeezing her tight.

  “Ouch.” Andi whimpers, loosening Gabby’s grip on her. Her voice is shaky, rattled. “Thank you,” she says as she rubs her side.

  “You okay?” Angelo asks, intruding on our moment.

  Andi nods, Gabby firmly planted by her side, as Leona cleans up our mess. “Went down the wrong pipe, but I’m okay.”

  “Want some water?” More intrusion from Angelo. Doesn’t he see that I have it under control?

  “I actually think we should go. We’ve caused enough of a commotion.” Andi’s cheeks are pink from loss of air, or embarrassment, or both.

  Standing, I notice her small frame in skinny jeans, a lightweight long-sleeved tee, a sweatshirt on the back of her chair. “Shit,” I mumble. “I probably hurt you, doing that.”

  “You saved me. Thank you.”

  “Still, I should make sure you get home okay. Did you drive? I walked here. Why don’t I ride home with you, and then I can Uber home.”

  “Honestly,” she says, her voice still raspy, “you don’t have to do that. Leona came with us.”

  “You know what?” Andi’s neighbor finally speaks up again. “That would be helpful, Reid, because I was going to meet some of the other old bags at the knitting shop.”

  At that, I fall head over heels in love with the meddlesome neighbor, because let’s face it—Andi is never going to call me.

  Seizing the opportunity, I jump in. “See? Come on, let’s get you home to a cup of hot tea. Gabby, help your mom outside.”

  The little one never lets go of her mom’s hand until we’re standing next to a late-model sedan.

  “In you go,” Andi says, urging her daughter into the back seat, then looks up at me. “Do you want to drive too?”

  I think she’s being snarky, but it’s hard to tell. “Do you want me to?”

  “I was asking for effect, or whatever. I’m fine. We’re at the car. I really don’t need you to come with.”

  I open the passenger door, climb in, and buckle up without a rebuttal. She tosses her purse in the back seat, huffing as she puts her key in the engine and swings out of her parking spot. No turn signal, but I don’t say a word.

  We drive out of the shopping area adjacent to my neighborhood, past the university and through the center of a more up-and-coming type hood.

  Andi parks near a duplex and gets out without a word. I turn around and see why—Gabby is sound asleep in the back seat. All of a sudden, I feel completely unprepared.

  What’s the dating etiquette for someone with a kid? Do I offer to carry her in, or does that make me a pedophile? It’s one thing to tease over onions or horrible seventies music, but a sleeping school-age girl—I’m fucking stumped.

  The back door opens, and its creaking mixed with
Andi’s shhh saves me from my nervous breakdown.

  “Here,” I whisper from behind her as she leans down to grab her daughter. “I’ll get her. Just lead the way.” For some reason, she doesn’t argue, so I must not be out of line in suggesting I help.

  Doing my best, acting like I know what the actual fuck I’m doing, I lean down and slide one arm behind Gabby’s back and the other under her butt, pulling her toward me, letting my hand on her back slide up and cradle her head. Once she’s on me like a monkey, I step back and stand up, praying all the while she stays asleep.

  I look for Andi in the moonlight, but she’s already on the side of the house, halfway up a set of stairs. Then it occurs to me. She lives on the second floor, which is probably why she had no issues with me carrying Gabby.

  I follow up the stairs, where she unlocks the door and whispers, “I’ll take her now and put her to bed.”

  During the handoff, she says, “Thanks, we’ll be good. Just pull the door shut. It locks.” Then she’s off and down a narrow hall, taking Gabby to her bed.

  But I don’t leave. I don’t pull the door shut behind me. I definitely don’t wait for the lock to click.

  In fact, I do none of the above.

  I pull the door closed, trapping myself inside, and wander around Andi’s personal space. The decor is minimal. Artwork taped to the wall is the biggest decoration. A laptop and a bunch of zip drives litter the coffee table. One of those automatic vacuuming things is propped in the corner.

  My brain says to leave. My heart beats a different tune. My dick—that’s a whole different story—he’s never had to work around a daughter, so he’s pretty much fucked up (in the head, literally).

  “Oh.” Andi comes back out and startles when she sees me. “I heard the door . . .”

  “Look, I’m sure this is awkward. I’m here when I would’ve been waiting at home for you to call. But they say three’s a charm, right? We’ve had three of the most awkward meet-cutes, so I think you can give me your number now. Even your last name.”

  I walk a bit closer, keeping my voice low, and stop at a safe distance.

  She snatches the laptop off the table. “Reid, you’re sweet. Hot as hell, if you don’t mind me saying. But here’s the thing.” She turns, stows the laptop on top of the bookcase, and walks back toward me.

  She stands stoic, like a statue, delivering her monologue. “I’m a mom. A single mom. I wear yoga pants and work from home. Most days, I don’t wash my hair. I eat microwave dinners or pizza with a side of broccoli before falling asleep on the couch. This is not a sexy existence. You should be out clubbing, not standing here in the middle of my drab living area on a Friday night.”

  I inch closer. “Andi, I’m a statistics professor by day, and I blog by night. I don’t do clubs. I grade papers, and guess what? I have a cold beer, grill, and blog. That’s about as exciting as I get. Believe me, I’m no clubber. Oh, my full name is Reid Fellows, and I’ve been known to go to bed in Darth Vader pajama pants.”

  She laughs and raises an eyebrow. “Come on . . .”

  “No, you come on. Of course, I’ve had my days and nights of fun, but lately, I lead a quiet life. I want to take you out, and you know you’re never going to call me. You never were.” I step closer and take her hand in mine.

  “Schwartz.”

  “What?”

  “My last name . . . it’s Schwartz. Maiden name. I never changed my name when I married Gabby’s dad.” She slips her hand from mine and busies her fingers with tying her hair into a messy bun.

  “Hmm, Andi Schwartz. There’s a story there,” I say, my only goal to get her to smile.

  She does, and the dim room turns brighter.

  “Andonia Schwartz, actually. Italian mom, Jewish dad, hot-blooded temper for both.”

  “How do you even spell all that?”

  She laughs. “Believe me, I was practically in the fourth grade before I could write my whole name. A-n-d-o-n-i-a. Schwartz with a c after the s.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” I take one step closer.

  “Truth, I swear,” she says softly. “And to make it even worse, I’m a twin. My sister didn’t have it any easier. Odelia.”

  “So there’s two of you?” My hand finds hers again, and she lets her fingers twine with mine.

  “Not quite. Delia is smarter, settled, has the picket fence and all that. She’s the daughter making my mom proud.”

  Something draws me close, her scent or her combative pride, but my lips caress her cheek and make their way to her ear. “I don’t know your mom, but she’s wrong.”

  Andi doesn’t lean into me, but she doesn’t pull away, so I assume my advances are okay and bring my lips to hers. At first, I swipe my mouth over her soft lips, testing the waters, so to speak. When she doesn’t pull away, I go in for a long one. Closed mouth, but sexy as fuck.

  My eyes close, and I will them to open. I don’t want to miss Andi. Her eyes are open as I make out with her mouth. A small strand of hair falls loose from her bun, tickling our cheeks, and she breaks the moment to swipe it away.

  Sadly, we don’t go back to kissing. Instead, she steps back, stares at me, and lets out a little cough.

  “Shit,” I mumble. “I’m supposed to be here making sure you got home safe after nearly choking, not making the moves.”

  “S’okay, just not my usual Friday night. It’s about the most excitement I’ve had in years.” Her gaze remains on the carpet.

  “Hey, don’t hide. We just gotta get you out more. Have a little fun.”

  She shakes her head. I rack my brain, challenging it to come up with a solution, and fast. Andi is three seconds from tossing me out on my ass.

  “The place with the games, the video games!” I’m practically shouting, rambling, not making any sense, and probably waking her daughter, mucking shit up even more than I already have.

  “What?”

  “We’ll take Gabby. How ’bout that? The FunZone place with pizza and junk. You can give me your number, and we can forget the crazy kiss with the bad timing and start over.”

  Who am I kidding? Forget the kiss?

  “Bad timing?” she asks, frowning.

  “Forget it. It was bullshit. It was great timing, and I couldn’t forget it.” I move close again.

  “I haven’t dated in a long time, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to like my daughter more than me.” She steps backward, her ass meeting the end of the breakfast counter. Her place is small. An older kitchenette-style kitchen with a breakfast counter, a common living space, and I imagine two bedrooms.

  My mind flits to my big place . . . lonely and barren. Christ, I have more estrogen than the woman in front of me.

  “I’m only trying to butter you up. Why don’t you start with giving me your number, and then I’ll say good night, maybe kiss you again, and get the heck out of here.”

  She rattles off a few numbers, and I quickly pull out my phone and type them in. Then I hit SEND, calling her. “That’s me, in case you actually want to save it this time.”

  I move close, my hands on either side of her hips, her firm ass still settled on the counter, and kiss her.

  It’s not light. It’s nowhere near a caress. It could never be accused of a ghosting. It’s a fucking kiss. A sensational kiss, holding a thousand promises of what can be.

  If she lets me in.

  Dear Country Mamma,

  This is what I don’t understand. You write a blog on country livin’, recounting tales of your brood farming and wearing your 100% cotton, organic clothes (that you peddle the shit out of . . . #justsayin . . .), and we all love it. So, for the life of me, I don’t get the sideways flat-brimmed hats your son is always sporting. We’ve bought into your country culture. Crap, part of me wants to wrangle my own cowboy.

  All joking aside, I do love some of your recipes. The fried zucchini—smacking my lips as I write. The carrot muffins—to die for.

  But why, oh why does your son try to act like
something he’s not? It makes me feel like you don’t really live on a farm. Maybe it’s a part-time thing?

  Wait! This just in: Famed blogger Country Mamma is a farce.

  Yes, folks, or should I say urbanites. Mary Jane Mackenzie, farm mom, goes by MJ during the week while she resides in New York City. Originally from upstate New York, Mary travels there frequently for photo shoots, but rumor has it she’s a Photoshop master and has been known to insert her brood into farm-y backgrounds.

  I guess she forgot to ask Little Ricky to take off his Brooklyn Nets hat.

  By the way, who the heck ever thought little boys look good in those flat-brim thingies? They don’t. It would be like Mary Poppins putting on a miniskirt or Hannah Montana in a prairie dress. It simply doesn’t work.

  No sponsor for this post. Just keeping it real this #humpday.

  Looking for a bargain? Look at today’s earlier post on discount juice boxes! It’s a heck of a deal and a timesaver for lunch packing or soccer-mom snacks.

  Affectionately yours,

  The UnAffectionate Blogger

  I twist my finger in my hair for the umpteenth time, scouring my brain for what I may write about later, and decide to repost something and go for a run. I don’t know why I agreed to do this play-house business on a school night.

  Forget that. I don’t know why I agreed to it in the first place.

  I don’t date. I barely leave the house. The last time I did anything adult-ish, it ended catastrophically.

  Rather than dwell on the horrific, I lace my shoes, slip on my pullover windbreaker, grab my key and headphones, and slip out the door. Routine is my light saber—it slays the anxiety.

  Except, I’ve agreed to something so freaking outlandish, I swear there are hives all over my body.

  All over.

  Even there.

  Yep, there. Down there.

  At the bottom of the outdoor stairs, I pick up my pace and attempt to run off the nerves. After a quick five miles, I’m still failing. Of course, Gabby nearly topples off the bus.

  “FunZone, yesss.” She pumps her slender arm. “I told everyone at school, and they didn’t believe me. Only Lizzie did.”