Moore To Love

by Faith Andrews

  Every time Lane opens his mouth something refreshing and inspiring comes out of it. I must admit, I initially judged the “Lane Book” by its cover—as in, I never imagined a man as hot as he is could also be so kind and friendly. Maybe the moon’s out of whack or something because lately, every stud I run into is as nice on the inside as they are on the outside. The tide’s changing, Leni. Get yourself caught in its delicious undertow.

  Sounds good to me, but suddenly the only wave rolling my way is a nasty case of nausea. I jump up from my seat right in the middle of my discussion with Lane and beeline it to the bathroom without so much as a warning.

  “Shit! Leni?” I hear him call from behind me.

  Out of fear that he’ll follow me inside and witness another episode of the Upchucking Wonder, I slam the door and lock it before becoming one with the toilet. My stomach empties violently, the front of my head pounding with every lurch. When the queasiness finally subsides after what feels like hours of retching, I rest my face against the cold tile floor and then there’s a soft knock at the door.

  “Leni, I know you swore off the ER for all of eternity, but I’d be happy to take you to make sure everything checks out okay.”

  Sweet, wonderful, caring Lane. The sound of his voice soothes my otherwise unsettled insides. The doctor warned me that I could experience more vomiting if I didn’t rest, but I had no idea entertaining a few visitors and lounging around in LuLaRoes wasn’t considered resting.

  With a mere second to take stock of the now-emptied state of my stomach, I feel as if the worst is over. “No. Thank you, though. I feel much better. Let me wash up and I’ll be right out.”

  “Okay. Do you have any ginger ale in your fridge?”

  “Yes.” Thank you, Mom. She always makes sure I have a bottle lying around like she did when I was a kid.

  “Do you mind if I go into your cabinets and pour you a glass?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Okay. Take your time. I promise not to snoop around.”

  I bite my lip and giggle, brushing a few matted clumps of hair from my clammy face. I should be worried this man will be the death of me, but he’s already breathed new life into me just by being in the right place at the right time.

  After I freshen up and join Lane on the other side of Pukesville, he orders me to bed and starts tidying up the apartment.

  “You don’t have to do that.” I reach for the glass he’s unnecessarily washing in my sink and my fingers brush the back of his hand. Our eyes lock and we share a silent moment of unspoken desire. At least that’s what I’m calling it, because one single millisecond of my skin stroking his has me in a tizzy.

  “I’ve got it. Really.” He finishes soaping up and rinsing the glass, our moment gone as quickly as it came.

  Once the glass is cleaned and dried, he wipes his hands on the dish towel that’s hung over the faucet and then turns to face me. If there was one way to describe the aura in my kitchen right now it would be that awkward first date/first kiss scenario that everyone in the dating world from sea to shining sea has experienced at least once.

  I gulp away my insecurities, begging my nerves to take a hike. I’m dying to ask Lane to hang out again—not necessarily a date, but just more time together—before I lose my chance and my grip on my non-existent balls. I take a deep breath and close my eyes—dramatic much?—and open my mouth to get on with it.

  “Leni.” He beats me to it, shutting me up with those delectable dimples. “I know this will sound weird, but . . . other than your trip to the bathroom, I had a lot of fun tonight.”

  Hallelujah. We’re on the same page of this crazy book. “I know exactly what you mean and I was actually going to ask if you’d like to hang out again some time.”

  Lane’s features relax and his tight posture slackens. “I’d like that a lot.”

  “Me, too.” If a heart could take flight, mine would sprout wings and fly right the fuck out of my chest.

  “Can I have your number?” It escapes from his mouth in a breathy murmur. Why on God’s green Earth is this man shy around me?

  This whole thing feels like high school. Or how high school should have felt had I not been shunned from coolness. Either way, I’m loving every second of our adolescent-like exchange. “Of course!”

  I waltz over to the junk drawer with a Fred Astaire bounce to my step and pull out my whimsical “portable therapist” notepad. I scribble my cell number above a comic bubble that reads It’ll be okay. I hope. Ignoring the quote on the ridiculous gag gift from Tatum, I slap the paper into Lane’s open, waiting palm. “Sorry. This is the only thing I had handy.”

  He reads it and then his eyes meet mine. “You’re already more than okay, Leni.” This time his voice is so low it’s almost inaudible. Before I can comment, he retreats and tucks the paper inside his shirt pocket. “I better be going. I’ll shoot you a text tomorrow to see how you’re feeling?”

  “Sure thing.” I follow behind as he heads for the door, unsure whether it’s the concussion or pheromones causing my loopiness.

  Once at the threshold, I lean across him to let him out. If I could avoid letting him go, I totally would, but it’s late, I need to rest, and I’m pretty sure I have some leftover puke nuggets in my hair somewhere. “Thank you so much for returning my phone and for the flowers. You’re very sweet.”

  Lane smiles and bows his head, placing a hand on my shoulder. “It was a pleasure. Take care of yourself so we can maybe share a morning walk on the track next week.”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  Before I can react to what he’s doing, Lane’s leaning in, our faces mere inches from each other, and then his soft lips are on my cheek. He lingers, his beard tickling my skin, before he withdraws and says, “Good night.”

  I think I return the phrase, but I’m not sure because I’m left in awe, staring at the image of Lane leaving my apartment. What just happened? And how? I’m not complaining, because that would be plain old dumb, but I’m not sure I know how to handle all these emotions without a box of chocolate and a gallon of wine.

  IF I’M LAID UP IN the horizontal position for one more second, I’m going to commit Hari Kari. It’s been seven full days, zero vomiting or headaches, one overbearing mother, two fading bruises, many sweet texts from Lane, and now that I’m standing on the goddamn scale—aka the devil incarnate—five more unwanted pounds. I had a feeling this would happen because of my couch potato status, but it still sucks. If only they could come off as quickly as they creep back on.

  “Damn you!” I stare down at the number, blinking as if doing so will make it magically transform to something lesser. Disappointment floods my flaccid muscles and I make the decision to take matters into my own hands. Screw the doctor! I mean, I can’t be the first jogger to become one with the trunk of a good ol’ maple. Surely there are tons of cases where people bounced back right away and went on to continue their training.

  So help me, God, I want to be one of those people, because in the past I was the total opposite. An obstacle would deter me and cause me to abandon my mission. It happened after I was ridiculed at fat camp and the diet pill debacle. And it really spiraled out of control after I was rejected by Alex. But not today. Today’s the day I don’t allow the tree mishap to define me. Today’s the day I seize the moment and prove to my inner chunkster that I’ve changed, for the better.

  After I inhale a quick shake for breakfast and stuff my thighs into my favorite running pants that were definitely not this snug a week ago, I lace up my sneakers and head to the park. The weather’s beautiful and I’m taking advantage before the warm fall breeze turns cold and blustery.

  It’s only been a week since I’ve been here, but I’ve missed this place and I’m happy to be back. I stretch my limbs and shake them out, then plug my earbuds in. Not even two minutes after finding my familiar groove the music is interrupted by an incoming call. I brace myself to see my mother’s name appear on the screen, but to my surprise it’
s my boss.

  “Hello?” I answer, slowing my jog to a brisk walk.

  “Leni! How are you feeling, love?” Raven’s bubbly voice warms my spirit. I seriously hit the jackpot when she hired me. She’s a doll, and her knowledge of cosmetology is off the charts.

  “Much better. In fact, I’m out for my first run since the accident and I was going to call you when I got home to figure out my schedule for the week.”

  “Perfect, because I have great news!”

  Raven’s great news is always epic. I veer off to the edge of the path—no trees in my way this time—to ready myself for whatever she’s got up her designer sleeves. “Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

  Raven giggles and then divulges the monumental information. “The swim suit shoot turned into a full on runway show. They want our team on set in Miami in three days. Do you think you’re clear to go?”

  “Yes!” I don’t even think about it before I answer. Come hell or high water, I’m on the next plane to Miami. This is a dream come true, and I’d rather risk another membrane rupture than miss out on it.

  “Don’t you need to check with your doctor first?” Raven’s voice is laden with concern. Of course it is. She’s a mother of three and one of the kindest people I know.

  She won’t just take my hasty word for it, so I try my best to reassure her. “The doc said one week. I followed his orders to the T and stayed off my feet—nothing but soap operas and smutty romance novels for seven days. The bruising’s almost gone and I’ve actually been feeling like my normal self for the last three days. Come to think of it, I probably could’ve returned to work sooner.”

  “No, no, no. Don’t be crazy, Leni. I didn’t need you fainting in the studio while you were with a client. We took the proper precautions and I’m glad we did because . . . now you’re nice and rested for Miami.”

  Squeeeee! “Really, really, really? I can go?”

  “Of course you can go. You’re my top girl. We need you. Now, go reenergize your cute buns on your run and I’ll email you all the details as soon as we get off the phone.”

  I shake my booty and break out into a happy dance right there on the edge of the trail. “Thank you! I’m so excited you have no idea!”

  “Good. Bring some of that excitement down to Miami with you. I’m calling a meeting tomorrow afternoon with the team to get everyone up to speed on what to expect. See you then?”

  “Yes you will! I’ll pick up the coffee?”

  “Please. Thanks, Len. Have a good one.”

  I hang up with Raven, so thrilled with the news that my usual four mile run turns into six. I should be rusty from not working out all week, but my excitement about Miami fuels every last molecule in my body to push as hard as I can.

  That afternoon, I attempt to start packing for the trip, but it becomes more a game of fling-the-clothes-around-the-room than anything else. There is not one item of clothing that fits properly, and while that should be a major triumph in my eyes, it’s a frustration I hadn’t planned on. What used to be too small is now out of date from sitting in my closet too long in anticipation of pound droppage. My old, stylish favorites are now saggy and frumpy thanks to my progress. This means I’ll have to go shopping, and anyone close to me knows I’m not exactly a bubbly, cheerful shopper. Give me a department store full of wall-to-wall makeup and hair products and I’m in heaven, but clothes and dressing room mirrors . . . just call me Linda Blair, minus the pea soup.

  I’m not up for the challenge alone, so I shoot a group text to Tatum and Ashley, begging one or both of them to join me.

  Tatum is first to respond with the eye-roll emoji and a snarky response that reads: Shopping with you requires Xanax and earplugs. Ashley . . . wanna take one for the team?

  Holding back, I tap my foot awaiting the three tiny dots indicating that Ashley is typing out a message. When it pops up on the screen, I nearly toss the phone alongside the mountainous pile of clothes gathered at the foot of my bed.

  Ashley: Wish I could, but Rey and I have to meet with the florist tonight. Sorry. Tatum, be a pal. Isn’t that what friends are for?

  Tatum: Have you ever endured a shopping trip with our dear old BFF?

  Ashley: Maybe once

  Tatum: And you survived unscathed?

  Me: GUYS!!! I’m right here!!!!

  Ashley: Sorry, babes. Next time?

  Tatum: Honestly, I would if I could, but Paul is coming over and I haven’t seen him all week. Rain check?

  Defeat is a terrible thing, but I can’t say I blame them. The wedding has everyone in a time constrained dither and I have been known to get up close and personal on a not so appropriate level with the fitting room attendants at Saks.

  Me: It’s okay. All’s forgiven, wenches. I guess I’ll have to find a Miami-suitable wardrobe all by my lonesome.

  Ashley: Yay, Len! So excited for you. I’ll call you after my class to get the whole scoop on the trip.

  Me: Sounds good.

  Tatum: Hey! I have an idea! Why don’t you ask your new beau, Mr. Fancy Pants, to tag along?

  Every phone conversation with Tatum has to have an expiration date. This one came rather quickly.

  Me: Okay, and that’s the beauty of modern technology. I’m leaving this chat. Bye, girls, thanks for nothing. Speak to you later, Ash.

  With that I turn off the text notifications on the group chat and throw myself onto the mattress with a dramatic huff. My head sinks into the plush pillow and just as my lids descend over my tired eyes, the phone buzzes against my stomach with another alert.

  I don’t want to look because it’s probably just Tatum torturing my life again, but I lift it up and instantly reawaken at the sight of his name.

  Lane: How’s my favorite patient today?

  Aw. I’m his favorite patient? My thumbs tingle as they race to respond.

  Me: Hey, I’m good. Thanks for asking. Missed you on the track today.

  Too much? That was too much, wasn’t it?

  Lane: You should have texted me! I would have met you. In fact, that’s another reason I was texting. I’m heading for my run now.

  Of course I missed him by a smidge. Story of my life . . . too much or too little, no moderation.

  Me: Damn, would’ve been nice to have some company. Next time?

  Lane: Definitely. I can’t tomorrow but maybe Wednesday?

  If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have none.

  Me: Leaving for Miami Wednesday morning.

  Lane: Oh, nice! Business or pleasure?

  Me: Business. Swimsuit runway show.

  Lane: I knew you had to be a model! My gut is never wrong.

  Snot flies out of my nose as I snort at his ludicrous mistake.

  Me: You better check that gut, buddy. I’m not strutting anything on the catwalk. I’m a makeup artist. My team was hired for the shoot and the show.

  Lane: Well, it’s their loss then. It should be you up there. I’d pay anything for a front row seat.

  Oh my, my. This is either one of those cases of texting balls or Lane is just a genuine sweetheart. My cynical nature finds it hard to believe it’s anything other than a daring compliment masked behind the security of the phone. I can’t even muster a witty reply because I’m not used to being on the receiving end of flattery. Rather than come off as insecure, I change the subject.

  Me: No work for you today?

  Lane: Nope. Twelve hour shift tomorrow.

  I can leave it alone or make good on what I told him last night before he left. Is it too soon to cash in? My fingers decide to take the reigns without consulting my brain.

  Me: Doing anything later? I could use a shopping buddy. If you’re game.

  Did I really just ask him that like he’s some girlfriend you drag to the mall to try bras on with? And what if Tatum’s right about my shopping rage? I have to come up with another plan. Quick.

  I start to type out an alternate idea—movies, bowling, anything—but Lane’s text beats me to it.

  La
ne: Sure, only if you let me take you to dinner afterwards.

  For the second time in one day, I praise the gods of modern technology. If texting had never been invented, this would be an awkward phone conversation, and the ear-splitting squeal that just rocked my body would have sent him running.

  I compose myself and answer with trembling fingers.

  Me: You sure? I don’t want to put you out, it’s just that I have to get to the shops so I can pack before the trip.

  Lane: You’re not putting me out. I’d love to join you. Text me what stores you want to hit up and I’ll think of a restaurant in the area so I can make reservations. Meet at your apartment at 3?

  Good-looking, sweet, and thorough. Me likes.

  We end our very productive text with a confirmation, and I bust a few very unattractive moves around my bedroom. Out of breath and adrenaline pumping, I psych myself up to call Tatum for outfit advice. She’s going to flip. I can hear her now. Surely, she’ll take credit for this being her idea in the first place.

  Okay. Maybe I’ll wait to call her until I can bask in the joy of first date butterflies a few minutes longer.

  HA! SUCK ON THAT, TATUM. There were no outbursts at Bloomingdales or casualties at Urban Outfitters. And because I wore my favorite comfy Chucks, rather than the wedge boots she suggested, my dogs aren’t barking and Lane and I can enjoy a nice stroll through the narrow cobblestone streets of the West Village. Rather than cram into the grimy subway, we carelessly promenade Wooster and Prince Streets, soaking up the natural art all around us; quirky boutiques, antiquated buildings, the hum of the melting pot of tourists, transplanted residents and real-deal natives of the city. In my former days, I would celebrate my enjoyment with a dirty water dog from a street vendor as an appetizer, but since I’m being good, and want to keep the streak of non-embarrassment going, I’ll restrain.

  “Ready to eat? All that shopping made me hangry!” Lane snarls as he politely grabs the bags out of my hands and meshes them with his own.