“Why?” was all I could ask him. “Why would you do this to me? How could you do this? It’s not like we never had sex!”
He paused for a moment to consider. Then he looked at his hands, laying them helplessly in his lap, and he said, “When you’re lost at sea, any port starts to look good.” It was his weak attempt at a joke, because he laughed softly.
I gripped the car keys so hard they tore into my flesh. “Just so I’m clear: I’m the dry port in this scenario?” Like my self-worth wasn’t shattered already. “That’s the wrong answer, James. Wrong friggin’ answer.”
James pulled at his dark hair, then released it. “It’s a terrible analogy. I don’t know how else to explain it. You’ve never struggled with your sexual identity.”
I felt pissy then, that he’d gone and broken up with me and then tried to make it seem like he’d cornered the market on relationship woes. Not fair. The only thing that stopped me from clawing out his eyes—well, there were two things. One, he looked broken, like maybe no matter how difficult that conversation was for me, it was even harder for him. Maybe. And two, I loved him. I loved him more than I could ever imagine loving anyone, and he wasn’t trying to hurt me; he was just trying to be who he was. But it still felt like he’d locked my chest in a vise. “Lettie. Will you ever forgive me?”
You know how they say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes? Right then, as our relationship lay mortally wounded, I thought of everything that was dying. Our first date at that weird pizza place with the creepy-Italian-chef stereotype on the menu. The weekends walking through Boston holding hands. The long-distance phone calls. That spark I’d get in my stomach when he e-mailed. My nonrefundable fairy-tale wedding and happily ever after. It was all going away, and he wanted to know if I could forgive him.
“I’ll think about it,” I muttered. Then I told him to get the hell out of my car. We hadn’t talked since. As the best maid of honor in the world, Faye had handled all the wedding cancellation details and conversations.
It was too late to get our money back from the reception venue, which had included catering, so James and I split the seventy-five entrées that our guests would have enjoyed. I gave a bunch to Dad and to Faye. I spent a few weeks feeling sorry for myself, alternating between picking at thawed baked cod and thawed stuffed chicken while watching reality television. Then, at Faye’s insistence, I pulled myself out of the butt-groove on my couch and went to therapy.
There may be thousands of therapists in the tristate area, but there is only one Dr. G. Bubbles, of that I am certain. Dr. Bubbles. The name burst with opalescent vigor. His website is plain and features a picture of a leather chair beside a peacock-blue Tiffany-style lamp. If you allow the cursor to hover like the finger of God, words will appear: Dr. Bubbles works with his patients to specially tailor an acceptable treatment plan, or Why suffer in silence? You’re not alone.
Before my first appointment, I indulged in the fantasy of entering his office and falling in love. Then I’d be able to look back at what I was referring to as the James Incident and say, “If that hadn’t happened, then I wouldn’t have met my darling husband, Dr. G. Bubbles.” Heck, I would be Aletta Bubbles. I challenge you to find a better name for a kindergarten teacher or an author of children’s books. But Dr. G. Bubbles wasn’t a dreamboat. He was a corpulent middle-aged man with monk-pattern baldness and a little island of dark hair where a widow’s peak should be. His office was otherwise as pictured on the website, with the addition of a small cactus plant that was probably crawling with baby tarantulas.
“Thanks for meeting with me, Dr. Bubbles,” I had said as I plopped myself onto a stiff leather couch for the first time.
“It’s pronounced Boo-blay,” he said drily. And thus, the fantasy died.
So Dr. Bubbles and I sorted out some things, and apparently I have a lot to work on. Childhood stuff, feelings of inadequacy, general disappointment. Fatalistic thinking patterns. A tendency toward snark. It turns out I have some trust issues and expect the worst of people, which . . . I don’t know. Did he need a doctorate to see that? I feel like I could’ve told him that myself or maybe filled out a questionnaire. Do you imagine your sister’s neighbors to be serial killers? Circle Y or N.
Over the summer, I was going to therapy three days a week to talk about how peeved I was that James, the man of my dreams, turned out to be gay, and Dr. Bubbles would say that he thought I was maybe talking about my mother or something, deep down in my subconscious, and then I got tired of talking about it at all. The visits with Dr. Bubbles felt like picking at a scab. At our last meeting, he suggested I focus on gratitude.
“Focus on what now?” I’d lost my happily ever after. Gratitude was for other people.
But I could see by the way Dr. Bubbles sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers that he was having his Moment, and he thought I was about to get my money’s worth from those copays. “Tell me what you’re grateful for today. Start anywhere.”
I considered it. “It’s a nice day out,” I muttered.
“Good. What else?”
“I lost three pounds.”
“Keep going.”
So I started ticking off things on my fingers. I was grateful for my little Craftsman bungalow, which my great-grandfather had built with his own hands. I was grateful for my favorite sweater, and my job, and my books. I was super grateful for Odin, the big lug—even if he chewed the crotches out of my pants, and even if I couldn’t be sure whether this signified love or aggression. “I guess I have a lot to be grateful for.”
He slung one ankle over his knee and rested his hands in his lap. “You have a gap.”
“What, like a thigh gap?” I definitely did not have a thigh gap, not even after losing those three pounds.
“No. You have a gap in your life where James used to be. It needs to be filled. You can fill it with hurt and anger, or you can fill it with something more positive.”
“Ah. I see. You mean that I should fill my gap with gratitude?”
“That would be positive. But you can fill that gap with any number of feelings or activities. Creativity. Love. Self-discovery.” He looked at me pointedly. “Trust.”
Before school started, we left it off that I should get back to dating when I felt ready. Have more sex, but this time with straight guys. Work on filling my gap with good things. And as I said good-bye to Marcy at Sombrero’s that day, I thought back to Dr. Bubbles and his steepled-fingers Moment. By the time I reached the hot confines of my car, I’d had a Moment of my own: I could approach writing erotica as an act of desperation, or I could think of it as setting sail on a new creative challenge.
I decided then and there that I would fill my gap with smut. A is for ass play.
CHAPTER 4
ON THE SATURDAY morning before the start of the school year, Eric woke before dawn and made the four-hour drive to Montpelier, Vermont. When he pulled into the driveway, his younger brother, Andrew, and his older sister, Sarah, were sweeping off the front porch of the old farmhouse. Sarah set the broom down against the rail when she saw him and smiled broadly. “Hey, Eric!”
“Good to see you, Sarah.” He gave her a hug. Her blond hair smelled like that apple shampoo she liked.
“’Bout time,” Andrew said in a mock grumble, but came over to give Eric a one-armed hug and a few pats on the back. “I hope you had breakfast. I ate all the doughnuts.”
“Of course you did. You’re a cop.”
Andrew snickered at that, and Sarah rolled her eyes. “There’s plenty inside. And Mom’s in there. She has coffee. But don’t take too long—”
“I know, I know. We have an ambitious agenda.”
Every year at the end of summer, Eric, Sarah, and Andrew met in Montpelier to help their mom clean before the weather turned. His mom was still living in the same farmhouse he grew up in, a historic white structure with a plaque on
the front that read Ezekiel Smith, 1789. Historic homes were charming to look at in every way, but the upkeep was a different matter. The wide floorboards weren’t level, so furniture legs had to be propped up. Dust settled in every corner, thanks in part to the unfinished basement. His mom had replaced the windows a few years ago and that helped with the winter draft, but the projects were endless. Repair the picket fence. Weed the flower garden. Reinsulate the attic. Repair the stone fence in front. Fix the old barn (a losing battle—the roof caved during a snowstorm five years ago and the structure had to be removed). Sarah lived in Burlington and visited frequently, so she’d e-mailed a list of tasks for that day to her brothers: Replace the rotted boards on the fence; bring summer furniture inside; bring air conditioners to the basement. And whatever else Mom needed.
When Eric entered the kitchen, his mom’s back was to him. She was looking out the window into the backyard. A few years ago she’d updated cabinets, counters, and appliances but kept the original brick oven. That was the point at which Eric realized that everything that irritated him about the old home was a reason why his mother loved it. “Mom?”
She turned from the window and her face warmed into a smile. “Eric. Hi, honey.” She set her hands aside his face and kissed him on each cheek, like she had when he was a child. “You look happy. You must love your new school.”
Did he? Eric gave a quick “Yeah, it’s great,” before he considered whether that was the truth.
Exhibit one, Gretchen. Last week he was in his office, unpacking, when she’d wandered in, sat herself on one of the visitor’s seats, and said, “There are some things you need to know about me if we’re going to work together, Eric.”
“Oh?” he said, and continued unpacking his books.
She crossed a meaty leg and set her hands on the armrests of the chair. “I have certain needs.” Eric froze, sure he was about to be propositioned, but she continued, “I demand excellence of my vice principal. Because, you see, the vice principal is a reflection of me.”
Slowly, he recovered. “Of course. That makes sense.” Even though it really didn’t.
“I work like an ox.” Gretchen lifted a hand to examine her fingernails. “First in my class at Miss Porter’s. That’s where Jackie Kennedy went to school, you know.” She lowered her hand and smoothed her skirt. “Summa cum laude at Vassar. With distinction. Then I received my doctorate from Harvard. So you see, I am accustomed to the highest standards. If I expect a lot from others, it’s only because I demand even more from myself.”
“That’s impressive, Gretchen.” Eric wished she would leave his office.
“What I’m asking is, can I count on you to be my right-hand man? Are you a person who believes in excellence?”
And he’d turned to her numbly, a copy of an abridged Oxford English Dictionary weighing down his arm, and he’d said, “Yes, absolutely, you can count on me.” It seemed to be the right answer, because she’d nodded her head solemnly and left a moment later.
Exhibit two, Lettie Osbourne, alias Matilda. The pretty teacher who thought he was a complete creep—and why wouldn’t she? He’d given penis lollipops to her niece and nephew, and apparently she wrote books about manners. Wonderful. She’d probably try to get him listed on a sex-offender registry.
Exhibit three, one of the administrative assistants—Sue—had the hairiest armpits he’d ever seen, and he’d accidentally stared at them. This had prompted her to wear a short skirt and bring in a plate of cookies the next day. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Eric,” she’d said, and he swore she winked.
So all things considered, things were going . . . weird. Just plain weird. And he was actually missing the middle school. But his mom didn’t need to hear about all of that. “How are you doing, Mom?”
“Fabulous. I saw my doctor on Tuesday. She says I’m in perfect health.” She grasped his forearm gently while she spoke. “I walk twice a day, you know. It keeps me young.”
“Yes, I’ll bet it does. Walking is healthy.”
She told him her walking route, which was the same route she’d been taking for decades. She liked that it crossed a covered bridge. “They decorate it with flowers in the summer. It’s lovely.”
“Yes, I have that picture you gave me hanging in my office.”
“Oh, that’s right!” Her fingers flew to her forehead. “I forget. I’ve probably told you this a hundred times, haven’t I?”
Eric took in her graying brown shoulder-length hair and her parchment-paper skin and felt the sadness he always felt at these visits. He lived too far away, and his mom was lonely. Eric took her hand in his. He’d always felt so protective of her. “I was thinking, after we clean up, we should go get some flowers for the porch. Would you like to do that?”
Her face brightened. “Yes. There’s a farm around here that sells flowers.”
“Perfect. I’ll drive you.”
He helped himself to one of the blueberry muffins Sarah had set out and a cup of coffee, and then he headed outside. He’d start with the fence, warming to the idea of physical labor as a respite from using his brain all day every day.
THE SIBLINGS managed to accomplish their list by early afternoon. They drove downtown to have lunch, and then Eric brought his mom to a nearby farm. Even though it was only early September, the farm had a selection of autumn decorations. He followed his mother around as she selected purple mums, corn husks, and a few tiny decorative gourds. She chatted happily while they walked, pointing out the different colors and telling him where she would place everything. “I love the fall; I really do,” she said. “In Vermont, we have the most beautiful foliage.”
“I’ve always thought so.” He lifted a pot of mums from her hands and set it down on a cart.
“Are you coming back again this fall?”
Ugh, the guilt. She didn’t mean it that way, but to Eric it sounded like Are you really not going to be here for another six weeks?
“Yes, Mom. I’ll be back for winter prep. If not sooner,” he added.
They loaded up his SUV, and when they returned to the farmhouse, he helped her string up her corn husks and decorate her porch. It was early evening when he gave her a hug. “There. You’re the first house in the neighborhood to have fall decorations.”
“Thank you. I love them.” She kissed one cheek and patted the other.
“I’ll let you know I got home safely, okay?” She always asked for a call.
“Okay.”
She waited on the porch while he backed out of the driveway, and then she waved as he drove away.
Somewhere along the highway, his thoughts drifted to Lettie Osbourne. He couldn’t fix Gretchen, and he couldn’t change the bizarre culture at Noah Webster, but he could make things better where he’d messed them up. He’d formally apologize to Lettie before the school year was too far under way. It was the right thing to do, the right way to treat people. And Eric prided himself on doing things the right way.
I WAS DETERMINED to keep my erotica ambitions to myself, which was the normal course of things. When you don’t tell anyone that you’re about to try something new, it hurts less when you fail. Besides, writing erotica was a one-time gig to finish out my contract and pay my credit card bill. It was hardly a vocation.
Marcy had agreed to give me a few more weeks to come up with a novella. It was a popular format in erotica and, Marcy felt, a more manageable length for a newbie like myself. But even so, that didn’t leave me a lot of time. I had to get to work. After lunch I stopped at a local bookstore a few blocks away from my house. The Book Corner carried some new titles, but they also had a healthy collection of used books in the basement, and that was good for my wallet.
I entered the store with my head down, like I was studying the well-worn paths on the floorboards. There was an older woman behind the counter, someone I’d seen there before. She had short silver hair and dark-rimmed glasses th
at she wore on a beaded chain, and when she saw me, she smiled and said, “Let me know if you need any help today.”
I gave a little wave. “Thanks, just looking.”
She looked so wholesome. She probably loved Jane Austen and chamomile tea with a splash of cream. Whiskers on kittens and brown paper packages tied up with string. I couldn’t bring myself to ask her where she kept the smut.
The Book Corner had that wonderful, bookish smell of new paper and escapist potential. There were a few patrons browsing the new hardcovers, and some were curled up on the soft armchairs at the back of the store. Normally I’d visit the children’s section to see whether they’d sold any copies of Say Hello, Sweet Pea! Then I’d browse the new paperbacks and debate whether I should spend the money or put my name on the library waiting list. That day, however, I hurried down to the basement. I already knew there was no erotica section on the first floor. I’d been through those shelves a hundred times, so it was the basement for me.
The stairs creaked beneath my footsteps. The room was well lit for a basement, but the bookcases were crammed floor to ceiling and the used books themselves were arranged haphazardly. There was one section marked “Fiction, mostly male authors” and another marked “Romance, mostly female authors.” Those sections were separated by “Travel, United States and Asia.” I set my hands on my hips and scanned the room. It would be an adventure.
I walked slowly, scanning the titles down one aisle and then up the next. I confess I dawdled at the “Self-help—New Age” shelf because there were a few titles that promised me the key to reclaiming my self-esteem, and one book on colonic cleansing that was probably misplaced but still looked interesting. Focus, Lettie! I tore myself away. I had come with a purpose.
They were in the back, on shelves marked “Romance, adult content.” Book after book of bare male torsos, every now and then an image of something liquid splashing, or smoke or fire or something suggestive like that. Space aliens with large breasts and plants with hands. Ghosts. I realized immediately that I was going to have to make some choices. Would I be writing about human beings or werewolves? Gay or straight? Kink or vanilla? This was what I was contemplating when my cell phone rang.
Seeking Mr. Wrong Page 5