Losing Mr. Right

by Natalie Charles

  My mother has a brand of open-mindedness that sometimes veers into gullibility. It’s a trait I fear I’ve inherited. She takes supplements by the handful and opens her chakras with crystals and aromatherapy. When I’m upset about something, she asks me if I’m hydrated, and if I insist that I am, she wants to know what color my urine is. Bodily imbalance of any kind is the root of all unhappiness, and that’s true because she read it somewhere. “I’m taking the turmeric, Mom. My pee is clear and my gut flora are thriving, okay?”

  “Don’t be short with me. You know how I worry.” She paused to inhale deeply. “I’m sorry. I’m upset. Your father and I were thinking we could get away for a while this summer, maybe go to San Diego to stay with Michael and the kids.”

  Michael is my older brother and the center of Mom’s world. Dr. Michael, the oncologist. I half suspect that Nana is the only reason my parents stay on the East Coast, and that once she’s gone, they’ll flee to be closer to Michael.

  Yes, I’m jealous, but what else is new?

  I pulled the pizza stone out of the cabinet. “So go to San Diego.”

  “How? How can we go anywhere with your grandmother like this?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I don’t know, Mom. You get on the plane and leave? Give Nana my number if you want.”

  “Oh, right.”

  I didn’t like the tone of my mother’s scoff. “What? I’m responsible.”

  And that was sort of the truth. I was a first-grade teacher who’d recently received a great performance evaluation. When my roommate left town, hadn’t I had some savings to cover the rent? Wasn’t I keeping Mr. Beau Jangles alive, despite locking my bedroom door at night so he couldn’t smother me in my sleep? Wasn’t I parking in the right space now that my landlord knew I could speak English? In those ways, I was totally responsible.

  Ways in which I was not so responsible? Well, I had been known to drink a little too much and go home with men I didn’t know. I joked about it with Lettie, but mostly because I felt a need to confess. It wasn’t a part of myself that I was especially proud of, but sometimes the pull was too strong. Sometimes the desire to feel wanted, and needed, and adored, even if only for a few hours until the buzz wore off, was overwhelming. But sleeping with the wrong men had nothing to do with checking in on my grandmother. “I can take care of Nana while you’re away. I’ll be finished with school in a week.”

  “Mindy. You live half an hour away and Nana says she hasn’t seen you since Christmas.”

  Ooof. I fished for the purple ends of my hair and pulled at them. Had Nana told Hipster Brett what a wretch of a grandchild I was? “I’ve been really busy.”

  “Busy.” Mom laughed drily. “Too busy to check on your elderly grandmother? What’s more important than family, Mindy?”

  “Mom—”

  “Nana’s going to be in a nursing home for a while, given her ankle. She can’t get around her house in a wheelchair, and she needs physical therapy.” She sighed into the phone. “Don’t worry about it. I know you don’t really want to be involved. We’ll figure something out.”

  It was a slight to be told I didn’t want to be involved in my grandmother’s care. How selfish did my mother think I was, anyway? And that’s exactly when I had a great idea. “Mom. What if I spent the summer over in West Portsmouth? The guest cottage at the Bayberry Inn is open, right?”

  This was a trick question, because I knew for sure the cottage was open and unused. I’d helped my grandmother find a tenant to run the inn, and that tenant—a lovely woman named Vaughan Prescott—had specifically said she would live in one of the guest suites instead of the cottage to save on rent.

  “Yes, I believe it’s vacant,” Mom said warily.

  “Perfect! I could stay in the cottage and check in on Nana at the nursing home while she recovers, and I could do whatever work she was doing around the inn. This way you don’t need to worry about a thing.”

  There. I was once again a virtuous granddaughter. This was the perfect excuse for me to skip town and avoid seeing Chase and Jackie for a few months, and if I could convince my parents to cover some of my expenses, that would make it an ideal summer job, too. I took a breath before adding, “You can pay me the way you would have paid a landscaper or handyman.”

  Mom pounced on that. “Do you need money? Are you in trouble?”

  “No, no, I’m fine. But you know that it gets difficult over the summer. The school stops my paychecks.”

  But she still wasn’t convinced. “You. Mindy. Mowing the lawn and planting flowers?”

  “Well jeez, Mom, if Nana was doing all of that I’m pretty sure I could figure it out.” I had the Internet to answer any questions. How difficult could it be?

  My pulse climbed as the pause in the conversation lengthened. Please say yes, please say yes. I was standing in the center of my kitchen, holding my breath and a box of frozen pizza as I waited for my mother’s response. Five minutes earlier I never would have imagined spending my summer working on my grandmother’s inn and living the cloistered life in her cottage. Now I wanted that lifestyle desperately because of the three promises it offered: seclusion, distraction, and escape.

  “Mom? Are you still there?” I sounded like a small child.

  There was another long sigh into the phone. “Okay. If that’s what you want to do.”

  I found my breath again. “Yes! Thank you. I mean, I want to help you and Nana out—”

  “And you’ll stay at her cottage and take care of it while she’s recovering? And you’ll visit her so she has company?”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll do all of that.”

  And I would, I really would. But at that moment, I was smiling and thinking about how wonderful it would be to leave my fractured life behind, if only for the summer. I turned off the oven and put the frozen pizza into the freezer. This was cause for celebration, and I was going to take myself out to dinner.

  I was out the door and headed down the driveway before I saw that Hipster Brett was still there, leaning against some beat-up, boxy car. I muttered a curse under my breath. “I called my mom. Everything’s fine. You don’t have to stay.” I paused. “Why are you still here?”

  He handed me the bills I’d given him. “I forgot to return these earlier.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” I tossed the money into the abyss of my handbag.

  He looked down the hill that led to the center of town. His hands were still scrunched into his pockets. “I was thinking about grabbing something to eat. Do you know anyplace good?”

  Dammit. “I’m heading in that direction. There are some spots down there.”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  I gritted my teeth. “It’s a free country.” Like the night could get any worse.

  “Great.” Brett tilted his head to look up at the stars. “Beautiful night. Thanks for spending some of it with me.”

  I glanced over at him, but yes. Apparently he was for real.

  • • •

  WE CONTINUED down the street to where the gentrification that hadn’t yet reached my neighborhood started. I’d noticed about a year ago that an art studio had replaced a pawn shop, and from there the vacant storefronts were steadily filling with all things yuppie: an organic coffee shop, a secondhand store that only sold designer-label clothing, and a place that sold hand-pressed, custom stationery. The most recent arrival was a kombucha bar that called itself Mucha Bucha. As if this weren’t horrible enough, Mucha Bucha had replaced my favorite dive bar. Life is so unfair, I thought, before I remembered that I would never attract happiness with that kind of attitude.

  Brett paused in front of the kombucha bar. “What about this place? Is it any good?”

  “I’ve never been.”

  He pushed the door open. “Want to try it?”

  I started. “What? In there?”

  “Why not?”

  Why not, indeed? My options were limited and my stomach was starting to growl. I nodded brusquely as I walked past him. “Thanks.”
/>   “Don’t mention it. You look like you need a drink.” Did I ever.

  But of course, I was in a kombucha bar. “We don’t serve anything alcoholic,” the guy behind the bar flatly informed me as he slapped a menu down. “Except some of the kombucha may contain a trace of alcohol. Not enough for us to card.”

  I drummed my fingers on the sleek metallic surface of the bar. I’d tried kombucha several times, and each time I’d gagged. “Just a water, please.”

  The interior walls of Mucha Bucha were covered in wood paneling, and simple wooden tables and chairs filled the dining area. It looked like the old bar it had been—Nick’s—except the floorboards were painted black and the daily specials were written in colored chalk on a board. Edamame, vegan stir-fry, lemon poppy-seed pasture-raised chicken. As I perused the menu, I was aware of Brett sitting beside me, two seats over. I’d informed him when we entered that I needed some space, and to his credit, he kept a respectful distance. Now I wondered if he was hot underneath all of that facial hair, or whether he used his beard to hide some hideous deformity. Probably the former. He had an air of hotness about him, some kind of confidence.

  The server behind the counter slid a glass of plain water in front of me and set his hands on his waist. “What can I get you to eat?”

  “I’ll have the chicken.”

  “It’ll be up in a few.” He tucked the menu under his arm.

  “Thanks.”

  Gosh, this was awkward. I stared at the mirror behind the bar where the alcohol used to be and saw my own blank face. I rested my chin on my hand and vowed not to check my cell phone. If Chase called or texted, then he could wait. Let him believe I was already busy leading a full, rich life. Which I totally was. Also, screw him.

  I darted a gaze at Brett. He had a nice profile, and his beard wasn’t the type that squirrels would nest in. It was well-groomed. He must have felt me staring, because he looked in my direction. “You must be worried about your nana.”

  His eyes. Yes, I sort of despised him for being all upbeat, but his eyes were a stunning shade of blue, and his statement was so unnervingly kind and sincere. For a moment, my tongue swelled and I lost my train of thought. “No. Yes. I mean, Mom says she’s okay. A little bit.” I rubbed at a spot behind my ear. “It’s been a long day. I can barely think straight.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  The server set down a pint glass filled with red liquid, which was frothy at the top. Brett took a sip. “How’s the kombucha?” I asked.

  He set down the glass. “Not bad.”

  “What kind did you try?”

  “Black currant.”

  A little bit tart. I liked that. I never could trust a man with too much of a sweet tooth. Oh, what the hell, I thought, and I nodded to the empty chair beside me. “Care to join me?”

  “I didn’t think you wanted company.”

  But he climbed down from his stool and came closer, walking with a swagger that piqued my awareness just a bit more. The intensity of his gaze warmed my skin. Even though his features were difficult to discern under that beard, there was something undeniably sexy about him. I smiled coyly. “Depends. Are you any good?”

  His gaze flickered as he registered the innuendo. “Good enough.” Then he took the seat beside me. Our knees touched below the counter. “You’re drinking water?”

  “Kombucha tastes like vinegar.”

  “But you’re in a kombucha bar.”

  “It’s here. I needed to eat. You held the door and made me enter.”

  “Ah.” He smiled and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Makes perfect sense.”

  • • •

  HE LIVED in West Portsmouth. “Just moved there a couple months ago from Seattle.” He had large hands and nice teeth, and he said he liked Connecticut because he could still see the water from his kitchen window. “It makes Monday mornings easier.”

  I chuckled at that. “I teach first grade. I know all about Monday mornings.”

  “Right.” He grinned from above the rim of his pint of kombucha. “You need an ocean view more than anyone.”

  We chatted pleasantly while we waited for our entrées, not even caring when the server told us the kitchen was busy and it would be a bit of a wait. Then we talked all through dinner, dragging out our respective meals. When the server asked if we wanted anything else, we exchanged a glance and Brett said, “How about a dessert menu and two coffees?” Then we both ordered the Earl Grey crème brûlée. (It was excellent).

  As we finished dessert, our thighs were touching, mine in a striped cotton dress, his in blue jeans. Every now and then I would punctuate the story I was telling by resting my hand on Brett’s leg or gripping his forearm. He told me he was a software developer, but everywhere I ventured on his body felt hard, muscular, and warm. He clearly found time away from his desk.

  “You know,” I said, my voice warm and slow, “I’m going to be staying in West Portsmouth this summer. To be closer to my nana.”

  “Oh yeah? Whereabouts?”

  “The Bayberry Inn. I’ll be staying in the guest cottage and helping out a bit around the place.” I smiled. “It’s a way to make some extra money over the summer.”

  He stared at me for a little too long before looking away. “Huh. Maybe I’ll see you around, then.” He finished the rest of his coffee and shifted in his seat, suddenly seeming restless.

  The server came by with two checks. Brett snatched up both bills before I could react. “Please, allow me.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “I do have money, you know.” He winked. “Besides, I forced you to order dessert. It’s only fair.”

  “Yes, as I recall you twisted my arm.” But I smiled and my cheeks grew warm. “Thank you.”

  “The pleasure was all mine.” He dropped several bills on the counter. “We’re all set.”

  The way he was looking at me … I felt the heat between my thighs. When Brett offered a hand to help me down from my chair, I took it eagerly. Then I didn’t let it go.

  Somewhere during the stretch of our meal, I had decided to seduce Brett. He was a sexy distraction from Chase and from my humiliation of that afternoon. A fun way to spend a few hours. And if I was reading his signals correctly, he was into it. I tightened my grip on his hand. “You’ll walk me home?”

  “Sure. My car is there.”

  But I could see that he got my meaning. After all, a guy that looked like he did, well—he couldn’t be new to this game, either. But our conversation stalled as we walked up the hill and I considered all the things I wanted to do to him that night.

  I’d want to taste him first. Those lips. He would be a great kisser, I was certain. His beard looked soft—would it tickle? I’d find out. Then I’d run my fingers through that dark hair before feeling that stomach. His legs were thick with muscle. I’d squeeze them, hard. I’d drop to my knees and nip at the soft part of his inner thighs—gently, just enough to make him catch his breath. I’d surprise him the way he’d surprised me, make him lose himself the way I’d lost everything dark that had followed me into that bar. At least for a little while.

  Brett cleared his throat as we turned onto my street. “I had a nice time with you, Mindy.”

  Oh, it’s just starting, sweetheart. I squeezed his hand. “Me too. And thanks for taking care of my nana. I should’ve said that sooner. I’m … grateful.”

  “I’m the one who got a nice evening out of it.”

  I blushed. “That’s my place up ahead.”

  He studied me sidelong as we approached the blue three-family house. Now I tried to see it through Brett’s eyes. The paint was peeling on the semi-enclosed porch, and the stacked black mailboxes by the entrance were rusted at the hinges. The postage-stamp lot was overrun with crabgrass and burned by dog-pee spots near the sidewalk. There were oil stains on the driveway. How many of these defects was Brett itemizing?

  My throat narrowed as I mentally reviewed the interior: the ugly cabinets and the sticky
linoleum in the kitchen, my sagging couch and the brown carpeting in the living room. My bedroom was nice enough since I’d recently splurged on a new comforter and sheets, and I could keep the lights low so he didn’t see the cellulite that had been cropping up on my backside—

  Brett stopped and allowed my hand to fall from his. “I’ll wait here until you’re inside.”

  “Wait.” I spun to face him. “You’re—you’re not coming up?”

  He reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Not tonight.”

  What the ever-loving hell? I crossed my arms and frowned. I didn’t want to appear angry, but this was the second time in hours that a man had rejected me, and I was pissed. “Why did you walk me here, then?”

  “My car, remember?” Brett waved a hand around. “Besides, this neighborhood? It’s almost eleven. What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you walk home alone?”

  But I was thinking more along the lines of, What kind of gentleman leaves a lady with blue balls? I’d been fantasizing about biting his inner thighs, and now I would have to take a cold shower. “Fine. Well, thanks.”

  “Hey.” He reached out and clasped my wrist as I turned. “I had a really nice time with you. Maybe I can call you over the summer? We’ll be in the same town.”

  This wasn’t my first rodeo. Men never called when they said they would. I pried my wrist from his grip. “You know, it’s probably better that you don’t. I have a Rottweiler.”

  Brett tilted his head. “You have a Rottweiler?”

  I hitched my purse higher on my shoulder. “I rescued him from some old lady. Apparently he was trained to attack men. He goes right for their—you know. Member. Rips it clean off.” I shrugged. “Anyway, he’s very jealous, and I don’t think he’d like it if you came around.”

  Of course, I didn’t have a jealous Rottweiler, but Brett gave it more thought than I felt was actually warranted before saying, “I’ll respect that. Have a nice night, Mindy.” He gave me a soft kiss on the cheek before stepping away.

  Damn. Part of me had hoped he’d put up more of a fight. He looked like the type who would say that he could take on a Rottweiler, no problem. What a disappointing end to a promising night.