Better Off Without Him (Romantic Comedy)

by Dee Ernst

  On Friday, I got a very fat manila envelope from David West. It was my divorce agreement, his version of it anyway. He sent long detailed list of all assets and debts, and beside each item was an MQ or BB. At the end of several pages was a line that read something about miscellaneous household items already determined. I assumed David was referring to the garage filled with Brian’s stuff that he had not come by to collect. It was a very sad document, neatly dividing twenty years of living and loving into what boiled down to two big piles. I read it three times before signing the bottom. Now, it had to go to Brian’s lawyers, who would pick it apart and come up with what I’d like to think of as a reasonable counter-offer, although David seemed to think there might be a bit if a fight. I called Doug, who sent his boys to the movies, made a pitcher of Mojitos, and suggested we get naked. He was very sweet about everything, because instead of having wild sex, I ended up crying all over his sheets and he kept handing me tissues.

  “Can I get you some water?”

  I shook my head.

  “How about food? Maybe if you ate something, you’d feel better.”

  “I’d feel better if my husband wasn’t so eager to get rid of me that he’d agree to give me all the IBM stock.”

  “Brian is an idiot, remember?”

  “Yes, I know. This is your fault. You got me drunk.”

  “It’s worked in the past.”

  “True. But I think tonight is a bust.”

  He gave me a hug and kissed my sticky cheek. “I’m not worried. After a sail on the bay and a sunset dinner, I expect you’ll be easy pickings tomorrow night.”

  Miranda, after hearing that her candidate Jack had thrown up in a public place, had declared she was out of the matchmaking business for the rest of the summer, and that all future dates would be my responsibility. She did want to be kept in the loop, however, and thought Peter was ideal. In fact, she was in love with the idea of his owning what she kept referring to as “a fleet of ships”, and wanted me to wear white bell bottoms and a blue-and-white-striped shirt, a la Marlene Dietrich.

  I was thinking that Peter was ideal as well, because after parking my car at the marina and following the dock to slip 43, I found myself staring at a sleek yacht, not at all like the fishing boat Brian had rented. This baby looked like it could mosey around the French Riviera and feel right at home.

  “Hello,” I yelled, then remembered Gilligan’s Island. “Ahoy. Permission to come aboard?”

  Peter bounded onto the deck. “Permission granted. Let me show you around.”

  It was a beautiful boat. Not very big, but defiantly rich. It had a small but beautifully decorated cabin with tiny stainless steel appliances in the galley and a flat screen television in the living room. He invited me up to the pilothouse where I sat as he smoothly took the boat out of the marina. He talked at length about horsepower and knots per hour, but I was so impressed with the white leather deck chairs, I was hardly paying attention. It seemed to be a rather large boat for just one person, but he explained that there were no sails involved, and that with all the computer equipment aboard, he could handle it all himself. Then he suggested some champagne.

  “I thought you didn’t drink,” I said.

  He flashed a smile. “Not for me, Mona. For you. Go below and check out the fridge.”

  I went back down below and checked everything out, including the bathroom – tiled with a walk-in shower – and the bedroom. The bedroom was one very large bed with a satin comforter and barely enough room to walk around it. I headed back to the galley and took champagne out of the baby fridge, as well as a platter of cheese and crackers, and a champagne flute made of pink acrylic.

  I brought everything topside, Peter opened the bottle, poured me a glass, and snagged a piece of cheese for himself before returning to the wide bank of dials and knobs that I guessed ran the whole boat.

  I took a sip. It was lovely, cold and fizzy and slightly sweet. I was stretched out on a deck chair, having kicked off my sandals, and closed my eyes against the afternoon sun. “This is great” I said loudly. The noise of the engine was loud. Peter, looking over his shoulder at me, suddenly reached down, cut off the engine, and stepped away from the steering wheel. He sat next to me on a second deck chair.

  “What were you saying?” he asked.

  “I was saying this was great. Shouldn’t you be driving or something?”

  He shook his head. “No. We’re not in the regular travel lanes, so we shouldn’t have to deal with lots of traffic.” We had only been cruising along for about twenty minutes, but as I looked around I was surprised to find myself surrounded by nothing but sea. There was no shoreline, no buoys, no passing ocean liners.

  “I thought we were going to stay in the bay,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Why should we?”

  Good question. The answer was that I felt very nervous and alone out here in the middle of the ocean with just him, but I didn’t think I should tell him that, so I just smiled and drank more champagne.

  “So, some people cancelled?” I asked him.

  He nodded. “Yes. German tourists, eight of them. They sounded like a rowdy group, so it’s just as well.”

  “Does that happen much?”

  He shrugged. “No. But I make sure the contract calls for money up front, so when it does happen, I’m covered.”

  I swirled champagne. “This is a much nicer boat that the one Brian usually rented.”

  “Yes. Everything is top of the line. It took me over a year to get it. Special order.”

  I was kind of waiting for him to maybe ask me a question, or talk about something other than himself or his boat, but so far, no luck. “How many boats do you own?”

  “Three.” He ate some more cheese. “Want to go swimming?”

  I looked at him, surprised. “I didn’t bring a suit.”

  He grinned. “So? We’re alone out here. Just strip down and dive in.”

  Uh-oh. “No, thanks.”

  “Mind if I go in?” he asked, suddenly standing up.

  “Not at all.”

  He was wearing blue and white floral swim trunks and a short-sleeved denim shirt. He grinned down at me again and pulled his shirt over his head. He had a very nice back, well-muscled and tan. Then he reached down and pulled off his swim trunks. He stepped out of them, turned to give me a little wave, and dove off the edge of the boat.

  I was shocked, of course. But not that shocked. I was suddenly aware that I didn’t find red pubic hair very attractive. I noticed that he had a great butt with no tan line, so he must have spent a great deal of time trunk-less. He was also hung like a horse.

  This was interesting. Here I was, in the middle of the ocean, with a man who had no apparent personal interest in me. He did, however, have nudity issues. I drank some more champagne.

  Two years ago, when Peter and I had spent an afternoon together in a much smaller pilothouse, we had laughed and traded wisecracks about his passengers, my husband and his band of wanna-be sport fisherman types. Peter and I were united against the equivalent of a common enemy, so of course we felt connected. But now, today, alone with nothing in common but the open ocean, we were total strangers. One of us was drinking champagne, one of us liked to swim in the nude. One of us could travel around the world by the stars in the heavens, and one of us needed a GPS to find north. One of us probably ate whale meat in a previous life, and one of us didn’t know a damn thing about boats.

  I poured some more champagne and added some cheese to a cracker. I took a bite. Very sharp cheddar on multi-grain. I glanced up at the sky. Maybe a chivalrous helicopter pilot would come by, and I could flag him down. How would he know to drop down a ladder so I could escape like Jamie Lee Curtis in True Lies? Could I carve out a message of some sort on the deck?

  Peter was pulling himself out of the water and climbing up the side of the boat by way of a rope ladder. He was dripping wet and, I must say, looked like a water god. Sleek. Sun-kissed. Glistening.

  H
e walked past me and the pile of his clothes on the deck and went below. I listened for a few minutes, and sure enough, he called for me. Crap.

  He was lying in the middle of his giant, satin-swathed bed. He was still glistening. He was smiling. He had an obvious hard-on. Holy crap.

  “Peter, listen.” I chewed my lip. I didn’t think he would rape me, but it’s wise not to get on the wrong side of the only person in the world who can get you back on dry land.

  “Peter, I’m very flattered. Really. And you are quite the man, obviously. But the thing is,–“ Think fast. I needed something that was not so much as a rejection as a turn-off. “I didn’t bring any condoms.”

  He was still smiling. “Don’t need ‘em. I got snipped. Come on over here, Mona.”

  “But what about, you know, spreading something?”

  “We’re wasting time here, Mona. Not to worry. I’m clean as a whistle.”

  “But I’m not. I’m actually in the middle of, ah, a flare-up right now. And without a condom, well - ”

  He sat up. “You’ve got - ?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I made a careless gesture with my hand as I watched with some satisfaction his reaction to the news, the anatomical equivalent of the sinking of the Titanic. “But, if you’re willing to take the chance…” I started unbuttoning my shirt, and he scrambled off the bed.

  “No, Mona, honest. I don’t think I, ah, I mean we should risk anything.” He went past me and pounded up the stairs. I followed him slowly, and when I got topside he was back in his clothes, looking very nonchalant, munching on a cracker.

  “More champagne?” he asked.

  “Sure.” I sat back down and drank some more. He sat, nodding his head occasionally, for about ten minutes. I was watching the ocean, feeling very relieved and quite impressed with myself. Finally, he suggested we head back.

  “What about dinner?” I asked, trying to look hurt.

  He cleared his throat. “To tell you the truth, I’m not feeling so good. Maybe too much sun. Next time?”

  Forty minutes later, I was in my car heading home, shaking with a mixture of rage and hysteria. When I pulled into my driveway, I parked, threw myself out of the car and ran to Scott and Steve’s. They were in their backyard with, of course, Doug.

  Scott got to his feet. “What happened? Why are you home so soon?”

  “He was a sex fiend,” I yelled.

  Steve frowned. “We knew that.”

  Scott nodded. “Everyone knows that.”

  “I didn’t.” I was still yelling. “I didn’t know that. I asked you guys.”

  “Well,” Scott said reasonably. “You asked us if he was a drunk.”

  “Or a drug addict,’ added Steve. “You never asked if he was a sex maniac.”

  Doug was laughing out loud.

  “You knew,” I shrieked at him. “You knew and you just let me go off on a boat with him.”

  Doug composed himself. “I figured you could take care of yourself.”

  “I had to tell him I had a sexually transmitted disease.”

  Scott clapped his hands in delight. “Excellent. Quick thinking. Can I get you a drink.?”

  I was still standing over Doug. “I could kill you,” I said, my voice still shaking but much quieter.

  Doug grabbed my hand. “I have a much better idea.”

  I snatched my hand back. “You thought I’d be easy pickings?”

  Doug nodded. “Sure. The guy’s crazy, but he’s got a great boat and I’ve heard he’s well, physically well-endowed. If that’s not a turn-on, what is?”

  I turned and started to walk away, but Doug’s voice stopped me. “Tom and Ann took your daughters for pizza in Beach Haven. They mentioned the water park.”

  I turned.

  “They just left. Fifteen minutes ago. They’ll probably be gone ‘till nine.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Nine?”

  Doug nodded.

  “That’s hours from now.”

  “Yes.”

  I looked at Scott, who was trying to look totally disinterested.

  Steve cleared his throat. “So,” he asked, “ was Peter, well, as impressive as they say?”

  “Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights.”

  Doug stood up and stretched elaborately. “I think I’ll say good-night, boys. Thanks for the drink.”

  He walked past me and around to the front of the house, I followed him, grabbed his hand, and pulled. He followed me across the street and into my house.

  Easy pickings.

  To: Anthony

  From: Mona

  Date; July 22

  Subject: GRRRR

  All men are scum. I hate men and don’t think I can make a go of it with women. Is there a third sex? Mona

  To: Mona

  From: Anthony

  Date: July 23

  Subject: Practice date

  Oh, babycakes, I hope you aren’t angry, but I told Marty to call you this week. You know Marty, right? Starbucks Marty? He runs the place, may even own the franchise. He’s always behind the counter. Anyway, Marty has always been a big fan of yours. Victor and I have been logging in serious coffee time, and I got to know Marty pretty well, and when he told me he was down in Beach Haven for the next two weeks, I mentioned you were down there too, and he told me he thought you were a very nice woman, so I gave him your number. You like Marty, remember? You said he was a real sweetie, and he is. He’s also kinda hot in that pseudo-Mafia/ Michael Corleone kind of way. Please don’t be mad. I love you, Anthony. PS – if there was a third sex, believe me, I’d have slept with it.

  To: Anthony

  From: Mona

  Date: July 24

  Subject: Marty

  Oh, Anthony, of course I’m not mad. And you’re right, Marty is a sweetie. When he calls, I’ll be charming and I bet we have a great time. I love you, too. Mona

  Starbucks Marty and I agreed to meet at a very popular Italian restaurant that was around the corner from the house he was renting. It was also in walking distance of my house. Public place, close to home. The restaurant was a bring-your-own-bottle family place, so he couldn’t get drunk before I got there. And he probably wouldn’t be naked. I was hoping I’d be safe.

  We had to wait for a table. We sat on a bench with a bunch of other hungry diners and I got a chance to take a look at him without his requisite Starbucks black with snazzy green apron. He was attractive in a very macho-roman kind of way. Thick wavy hair, dark, sprinkled with gray. Olive skin, black eyes, heavy brows, red mouth and very white teeth. Dressed in standard summer uniform, khaki shorts and white polo shirt. Very respectable-looking. We smiled politely without saying a word until we were seated across from each other.

  Marty frowned, centered the vase of plastic flowers, placed the salt and pepper shakers on either side of the vase, and said, “Well.”

  “Yes. Well. How are you Marty?”

  “Fine. You?”

  “Good.”

  The waitress came by, declared her name to be Tina and she’d be our server for the evening, and filled our glasses with water. Marty ordered an iced tea, and we looked at the menus.

  “Have you ever been here before?” he asked.

  I nodded and sipped water. “Yes. Everything’s good. I think I’ll try the Veal Marsala.”

  “You eat veal?”

  I looked up from the menu. “Eat veal? Yes. Don’t you?”

  He sighed. Very heart-felt. Deep. “What they do to those baby cows…”

  Okay then. The waitress came back, set Marty’s iced tea on the table, and looked at us expectantly.

  “I’ll have the Chicken Marsala, with pasta on the side. Ziti. Small salad, oil and vinegar. A side of garlic bread. Marty, do you want to split an appetizer?”

  Marty lifted his shoulders. “They don’t have those little rice balls, do they?”

  I looked at Tina. She shook her head.

  “No, Marty. How about calamari?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I real
ly wanted rice balls.”

  I turned to Tina. “No appetizer, I guess. Marty, what will you have?”

  Marty cleared his throat. “No Osso Bucco?”

  Tina shook her head. “No. Only what’s on the menu.”

  Marty sighed. “No lamb chops either?”

  Tina smiled patiently. “Is it on the menu?”

  Marty shook his head. “No. So I guess I’ll have the pork chops. Can he make those with hot peppers?”

  Tina was still smiling. “On the menu?”

  Marty’s face could not have looked more morose. “No.”

  Tina remained chipper. “Pasta?”

  “No, thanks. Baked potato.”

  Tina’s smile finally cracked. “No baked potato. Sides are pasta, steamed veggies or rice.”

  Marty looked close to tears. “Pasta. No, rice. I’ll have rice, please.”

  Tina wrote happily. “And on your salad?”

  “Balsamic, please.”

  Tina snatched up the menus. “Not on the menu. Oil and vinegar okay?”

  Marty shrugged his shoulders again and waved her away. He took a sip of iced tea, grimaced, and shook out his napkin. He examined the hem of the napkin, shook his head, and settled it on his lap. He rearranged the silverware, making sure the edges of each piece were the exact same distance from the edge of the table.

  “So,” he said, “the food is good here?”

  “Okay,” I backpedaled. “Nothing great, but okay. I like it because it’s close to home.”

  Marty nodded. “Yes, it’s close to where I’m staying as well.”

  “Great. How’s your place?”

  He rolled his eyes. “The mattress is lumpy. There may be bugs. There’s a sticky place on the kitchen floor. Don’t get me started on the bathroom.”

  I wouldn’t dream of it. “Have you spent time down here before?”

  “No. Usually I go to Ocean Beach. Maryland. But the house I usually take burnt to the ground over Christmas, so I thought I’d take it as a sign and try someplace new.”