Hot For His Girl

by Rachel Blaufeld

  “Mommy, I’m hungry.”

  Yeah, me too.

  Oh, what the hell. I decide to toss caution out the door. Especially since I put Reid off until this weekend, but for good reason. I had tickets to take Gabby to the Nutcracker the Saturday after Thanksgiving.

  ANDI: FYI, Gabby just said she’s hungry.

  As soon as I hit SEND, I want to slap myself. Using my daughter to bed men. Bad move.

  While his three dots are floating in a bubble, I text again.

  ANDI: I’m hungry too.

  REID: I have all these toppings. Would you like to come here? Remember where it is?

  Of course I remember. On the corner of lust and Reidville, where I left my libido and forlorn heart.

  ANDI: Sure.

  REID: What time works for you? I have to reheat the meat.

  He’s so domestic, I’m taken aback. After all, my ex went out for his daily coffee and then never came back. Remembering that little tidbit is a dose of reality. Men are fickle.

  Maybe not Reid, though?

  Although I’m lying to Reid, which is a bit like holding a fart in for too long. Eventually, it bursts free and your cover is blown.

  Oh snap. I need to put up a post. I think about what I can recycle word-wise while sniffing under my armpits and remembering if what I ate for lunch gives me gas.

  ANDI: An hour? I have a tiny bit of work to finish.

  I didn’t text that I need a quick whore’s bath and to brush my teeth and pop some TUMS.

  “What’s this?”

  When Gabby points at a dish of pico de gallo, I explain the ingredients.

  “Fresh tomatoes, onions, cilantro . . .”

  “Mom says onions give her bad breath and gas,” she says, whispering the last part.

  I nod. “So noted—”

  “Gabby!” Andi says sharply. I guess she caught wind—pun intended.

  “Hey, I’m a dude. A little fart talk isn’t going to scare me.”

  I try to set Andi at ease, rolling my eyes. She looks mortified, her cheeks reddening, a few loose strands of hair falling in her face. By the way, Andi looks smoking hot in her jogging tights, tight-as-fuck shirt, her hair back, and minimal makeup.

  “Do I roll it up now?”

  I help Gabby fix her taco and motion for Andi to help herself. “The chef goes last around here.”

  “Is that your ploy? You cook for all the girls?” Andi whispers her insecure response only for me. Gabby is sitting cross-legged on my bar stool, chowing down.

  “It’s been a while. I’ve been known to woo a few with my culinary skills, but I’ll let you be the judge of that.” As she begins making a plate, piling a healthy helping of grilled veggies and beef on top of one soft shell, I say, “Don’t stand on ceremony for me. Feel free to take as much pico as you want.”

  Andi rolls her eyes and blushes. “Sadly, this is my life. I’m a single mom with a kid who runs off at the mouth. I’m destined to be embarrassed for life.”

  “Come on. I like you, your life, and your mouthy kid.” I wink so she knows I’m joking.

  “Yeah?” Andi raises an eyebrow at me, and I pause.

  “Did I tell you that you look stunning like this?”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “Nope, but it’s obvious I like you and your kid and this life. You’re here.”

  She blinks and goes about making her plate. “Go. My daughter may start before everyone, but not me.” She turns her attention to her daughter. “PS, Gabby, you’re supposed to wait for everyone to sit and eat.”

  “I know, but I was starving. You forgot to give me a snack.”

  “Shoot. I’m sorry.”

  “White or red?” I call to Andi, and ask Gabby, “Soda?”

  “Red, please.”

  “A Coke. Mom, can I?”

  “Of course. Why not? Reid doesn’t have to be up until eleven with you.”

  “It’s caffeine-free,” I say with a wink, and Andi turns beet red.

  God, she’s so easy to please. Why can’t all women be this way?

  I sit down with them, and we dig in. Soon, Gabby asks for seconds.

  When she’s up getting her food, I lift a forkful of mine with pico toward Andi’s mouth. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of cooties. Take a bite.”

  A long moan comes out of her mouth as she takes my offering like manna from heaven, and I realize my mistake. Gabby is back at the table, the prospect of fart jokes long gone, because I’m raging hard under the table.

  This is part of the evening I didn’t account for—single mom plus daughter plus boner equals something doesn’t fit in this equation.

  “Reid, where are your glasses?”

  “Contacts. I wear them sometimes,” I tell Gabby.

  “Oh. I like your glasses. Sami at school just got glasses. They’re cool.”

  “They are pretty cool, like Clark Kent.”

  “Who’s that?” Gabby coughs a little, and I’m not going to lie . . . I overthink it. Should I give her the Heimlich?

  “Gabby, chew your food,” Andi says.

  “I am, Mom. You said you liked Reid’s glasses when you were watching him on the computer.”

  Andi ducks her head and murmurs, “I think I preferred when you were talking about gas.”

  I laugh, watching as Andi takes a sip of her wine.

  “Gabby, it’s not polite to repeat what you hear in private.”

  “You said it out loud, Mom.”

  “I didn’t know you were listening.”

  “Ladies, you know what? Why don’t we get bundled up and go toast some marshmallows?” I suggest, not wanting this conversation to grow a life of its own. Silently, I vow to never wear contacts again, and grab all the dirty plates.

  “I should clean up,” Andi says.

  “I’ll do it later. I’m sure Gabby has to get to bed.”

  I wonder what it would take to be able to take them home and help strip Andi out of those leggings . . .

  Not much, apparently. Sort of.

  “This was really fun,” Andi says outside her car once she has Gabby buckled up in the back seat.

  “I’m glad you liked it.”

  “I did. You know, my brother-in-law reads your blog.”

  “He does?”

  “Yep. My sister’s worried he’s having an affair because of it. He’s British and all stuffy, you know the type?”

  “You mean like a pocket-protector-wearing stats guy?”

  “Something like that. Anyway, he’s become a real Renaissance man since reading your blog.”

  I tuck a loose hair into her hat. A light snow is starting to fall, and I want to drag Andi inside in front of my fireplace.

  “I’m flattered, but I can’t concentrate on that right now. I really want to kiss you. I’m guessing this isn’t the place?”

  “Right, I’m sorry. I don’t want her getting the wrong idea.” She hooks her thumb over her shoulder toward Gabby.

  “I get it.”

  “She’s already smitten with you. FunZone, Halloween candy, Cokes. You’re a dream come true.”

  I lean close, my lips grazing her ear as I speak. “I’m kind of hoping I’m your dream come true too.”

  More blushing on her part, made clear by the glow from a nearby streetlight.

  “How about you come over one night after Gabby goes to sleep?” she asks. “We can have an adult beverage?”

  “Are you sure?”

  She backs up a step. “Only if you want.”

  “Oh, I do, Andonia. I do. I also would like to take you out, treat you right.”

  “Oh.”

  “Somewhere where they don’t cook with onions.”

  “Cute. Good night.”

  I pinch her cheek. “Think of that as a kiss,” I say, and she gets in her car.

  Andi’s taillights as she drives away remind me of her blushing cheeks, bright red and glowing. I hope to see her cheeks more than her taillights.

  The week
end arrives, and somehow, I survived the week unscathed. Reid and I didn’t have our adult beverage, which is also a relief. I’m not ready for all of that—

  “Ouch!” My own pain disrupts my train of thought.

  It’s Saturday afternoon. Gabby is glued to an iPad in the waiting lounge of a neighborhood day spa, while a semi-nice (semi being questionable) Eastern European woman removes all the hair from my downtown.

  “Try to relax,” she mumbles while smearing another round of hot wax way too close to my va-jay-jay.

  “Maybe I just want the sides,” I suggest.

  “No! Men these days like it bald. I’m telling you.” Her accent becomes heavier with every word.

  I close my eyes and try visualizing a beach, the ocean lapping in the background, my feet stuck in the sand. It doesn’t help.

  “Ouch.”

  “Aach, you’re like a jumping jelly bean. Stay still,” Helga demands.

  I behave, and just when I think my time is up, she speaks again.

  “Let me do your legs. They’re like a shaggy dog.”

  She’s not wrong. It’s winter, and what’s the point of shaving if the hair is going to grow back when I get goose bumps?

  Before I even nod my head, Helga is rolling wax up and down my thigh and pulling large paper strips full of hair off my skin.

  “Your husband’ll be happy.”

  “No husband,” I tell Helga.

  “Oh, but you have beautiful daughter.”

  “Yes, she is. Her father was more of a sperm donor who upped and ran the moment she was born.”

  “So, hot date? Good. Time to get back in the saddle, get yourself a new baby daddy.”

  “Um, sure.”

  “Okay, lift your legs and bend them back. Hold still.”

  I do as Helga says. Without warning, I feel a hot smear where no one has gone before.

  “It’s going to feel smooth as a baby’s butt. Make sure date feels it.”

  “Oh God.”

  I should have shaved, but Leona bought me a gift card to use here. “An early Christmas present,” she called it. Remind me to thank her later when my cheeks stop blushing.

  Cripes, I had a baby. This should be nothing, but it isn’t, because . . . Reid.

  “All done.” Helga pats my tush and washes her hands.

  I wonder what people write in Yelp reviews for this place. Probably something like, She was extremely gentle when she removed the hair from my labia, and then she patted my butt on the way out.

  “Gabby, pack it up,” is all I can muster when I make it to the lobby.

  We pay and hightail it out of there—at least, I do. Gabby has seventeen million questions, mostly about why I needed to get my belly waxed. That’s what I told her, and I’m sticking with it. #sorrynotsorry

  “Hi, Leona!” Gabby calls out, her greeting carrying through my place a little later in the day.

  I’m hopping on one foot, trying to zip my ankle boot just so over my skinny jeans. You know what I mean? So there’s no crinkling . . . because if there’s crinkling, your ankle looks fat. Your jeans need to be smoothed in there just right.

  OMG, I am not this girl. But apparently, I am.

  “Mom’s getting dressed. I said she should wear a dress, but she’s wearing jeans,” Gabby tattles, and I roll my eyes to no one.

  I haven’t worn a dress in a decade. I barely get out of my yoga pants.

  “Hi, Lee,” I say as I walk out into the living area.

  “Oh, I love the top. Sexy.” Leona shoots me a thumbs-up, probably referencing my black halter sweater.

  “Thank you. Now, Gabby, behave. Don’t eat too much junk. If you fall asleep at Leona’s, I’ll get you later.”

  “Pshht, don’t worry about that. Let her stay with me. I can make her breakfast.”

  “Leona . . .” My response is part shut the fuck up, and part yesss.

  “It gets boring eating all that wheat germ myself. Sometimes, I need someone to make pancakes for. Get your coat, Gabby. Toodle-oo, Andi.” Leona doesn’t even allow me a minute to respond, dragging my daughter out the door with her and into the cold, her coat half on.

  I whisk back to the mirror and examine my face, taking in my makeup. Quickly, I smell my pits, then add a drop of perfume. When I twist to get a peek at my butt, the doorbell rings. Thank God, because I don’t think I can take any more self-inspection.

  “Hi,” I say to Reid, butterflies swarming my belly.

  “Hey—”

  “God, I don’t want to be this girl . . . woman . . . but I’m so nervous,” I say, interrupting him.

  I figure, why not be at least half honest? My lie of omission about being the UAB is bound to smack me in the ass—by the door on Reid’s way out when he learns the truth.

  “Hey, don’t be.” He approaches, kicking the door closed behind him. “You look amazing, and smell pretty good too. Plus, you know I like you.”

  I take in his worn-in jeans, barn coat, and rugged boots. Of course, he’s wearing his glasses.

  “You don’t look so bad yourself,” I say, my arms dangling, not knowing what to do. Thankfully, Reid does . . . he gathers me close and kisses me on the lips. It’s gentle and closed-mouth, full of promise.

  “Figured I owed you that from the other night. Now we can start this date.” He takes my hand and squeezes. “Ready?”

  “I need to grab my purse and lock up.”

  He nods, and off I go to my room. When I come back into the living area, Reid is holding a picture frame.

  “That’s me,” I tell him, pointing to a younger version of myself in a hospital gown, holding baby Gabby.

  “I see that. You’re so happy.”

  “Yeah, despite being ditched in the hospital with a newborn, I was.”

  He gives my hand another squeeze. “Who would do that? Don’t answer. An idiot.”

  “You’re right.” I give him that, and he sets the frame down.

  “Let’s roll. Glad you wore jeans. If not, I was going to have to ask you to change.”

  When we get outside the door, I ask, “Where are we going? Dare I ask, now that I know I need jeans?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  “Hayride?” I ask as we make our way down the stairs.

  “No cigar. No more guessing.” He opens the door to the Jeep and waits until I’m settled inside..

  “Not FunZone, right?” I have to ask when he slips into the driver’s seat.

  “Definitely not. I like their pizza, but it kind of gives me gas.”

  “Oh my God.” I slink lower in my seat. “You’re never going to let me live that down, and I didn’t even say it.”

  “Sit back and enjoy the ride,” he says while turning on some Ed Sheeran.

  I do what he asks, because when else do I get to sit back and enjoy the ride?

  As we wind our way to the parkway (that’s Pittsburghese for freeway), we make small talk. Reid’s students have finals over the course of the following week, then he’s on winter break. He mentions not having any plans for Christmas.

  “Maybe I’ll go skiing for a day or two. Do you have big plans?” he asks, eyeing me.

  “My sister and her kids are going to come for Christmas Eve and then go back to Ohio to be with her neighbors on Christmas Day. They do this big buffet every year. I usually make breakfast, and Gabby opens her presents from Santa on Christmas Day, then we go to the movies. That’s what Jewish people do, by the way, and since I’m half, I try to uphold.”

  “Do you have Chinese too?”

  I laugh out loud. “So you’re familiar with the tradition?”

  “I don’t live under a rock, Andonia.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  We exit the parkway and turn onto a steep, winding hill. That’s Pittsburgh roads for you; nothing is on a grid.

  “Does Leona join you?”

  “No, she goes to her son and daughter-in-law’s for the holiday. They live in New Jersey. They also don’t hav
e any kids, only cats, so she doesn’t feel obligated to stay for long. She goes, they eat ham and all the trimmings, and she usually comes back on the twenty-sixth, covered in cat hair.”

  “Not a cat person?”

  “Eh, I don’t have a preference either way. Although too much of anything isn’t a good thing.”

  “I tend to agree,” he says as he maneuvers his Jeep into a parallel-parking spot at the end of a dead-end street and kills the engine.

  For reasons I can’t quite put my finger on, I don’t move to get out. But I’m a single mom, so I have a sixth sense. Wary, I survey my surroundings. No restaurants, coffee shops, or movie theaters in sight, forget a comedy club. The streetlight illuminates an old warehouse, a large steel door in the middle of the facade.

  “Are you going to murder me?” I ask. “Because there’s nothing around here.”

  “I’m going to try not to murder you, but the same goes for you, ’kay?”

  “If you’re speaking in some code, you’re going to have to let me in on the formula.”

  “Come on, you’ll see.” He winks and comes around the Jeep to open the door for me.

  Hesitantly, I exit the vehicle, thinking I should keep all hands and feet inside the car instead of out. Reid guides me to the large steel door, and I’m not going to lie, my heart is beating a wicked pulse.

  “I promise, this will be fun.” He places his hand on my lower back and guides me forward.

  Bright lights and a sea of flannel accost my eyes. There are lanes in front of me, like in bowling, except there are no bowling balls or gutters. Or pins, for that matter.

  “What is this place?”

  “Lumberjax. We’re going to throw axes.”

  “For real?” I look closer, and at the end of each lane is a bull’s-eye. Each lane is buzzing with a crowd full of ax throwers.

  “Looks fun, right?”

  “I have to get out more. Also, I didn’t get the flannel memo.”

  “Who cares! Come on, I stopped in earlier and left some dinner supplies and chilled beers. We’re in lane eight.”