Birthday Suit

by Lauren Blakely

  Nor do I care.

  I shove my feelings down and make it through the end of the hunt, when I learn we finished in second place on today’s challenge, and yesterday’s last-place finish brought us down a notch overall. Kingsley and her sister announce the winning team.

  News flash—it’s not mine.

  Finger-Licking Good is victorious, and George nearly leaps for joy when his name is announced.

  I pat Ginny on the back then Noah too. “Better luck next time.”

  I go to the office and reacquaint myself with the familiar lineup of spreadsheets, contracts, deals, calls to return, calls to make, and conversations to have—conversations I drown myself in so I don’t have to think of Lulu.

  I refuse to think of Lulu.

  All my years of training pay off.

  I don’t think of her at all.

  By three in the afternoon, I’m leaning back in my chair, and I’m chuckling with a chocolate supplier over a meme he just showed me. For the record, cat memes are always funny.

  Everything is fine here, thank you very much.

  Just another day of normal.

  Another day of I’ll get through this.

  As six in the evening draws near, there’s a rap on my open door. Ginny pops in. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey.”

  “Call me crazy, but you look a little . . . how shall we say . . . like you’ve been sucking on lemons all day.”

  That sounds like a better way to spend the day than fighting off thoughts of the woman I love.

  Wait.

  I’m not thinking of her.

  I pick up a pen and twirl it between my thumb and forefinger. “Nice to see you too.”

  She steps inside my office. “Are you bummed out about how the scavenger hunt ended? Because we’ll live.”

  “No, I’m not. It’s fine. It’s whatever.”

  “‘Whatever’? You’re not a whatever person.”

  But maybe I should be. Maybe I should say whatever to this whole upturned mess, since I don’t know how to fix it.

  “I’m turning over a new leaf. Thinking of becoming a whatever person.”

  “Is this because of what happened in the park?”

  I say nothing.

  She shuts my door, moves some papers, and parks herself on the edge of my desk. “Listen, you didn’t ask for my advice.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  “But I’m going to give it to you anyway.”

  “I had a feeling you would.”

  “The father of my child?”

  I sit up. She never mentions him. Never talks about him. “Yeah?”

  “He didn’t get his act together when I told him I was pregnant.”

  “Okay.”

  “But now he wants to be in my kid’s life. Now. When she’s ten. And can you add up what that means?”

  I’m good at math, but I have no clue how to perform Ginny’s arithmetic. “No. I can’t.”

  She pauses dramatically. “It means he missed ten years of her life.”

  “But Lulu’s not pregnant.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?”

  “Do you want to miss ten years of your life?” Ginny leaves the question trailing behind her as she hops off my desk and squeezes my shoulder. “A bunch of us are going to this new place up the street that has pinball games. Let me know if you want to join us.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  But the more I think about it, the less I want to be with anyone tonight.

  When moonlight blankets the city, I shut off the light in my office and leave, the last one to do so.

  Once I’m home, the silence of my apartment cinches unwelcome arms around me. I try to pry them off, but it’s powerful.

  I’m not in the mood for silence.

  I’m not in the mood for anything.

  I turn to the walls in my home. “Fuck off.”

  I walk into the kitchen and talk to the counter, the fridge, the stove. “Fuck off.”

  I pivot around and pass the picture of Tripp and me at his restaurant. I stop to stare at it. Somehow, somewhere, I’m vaguely aware of words I could say to his image—thoughtful, caring words.

  Those don’t come. Others hiss from my lips.

  “Most of all, fuck you.”

  But I don’t think he’s the one in the photo I’m speaking to.

  34

  Lulu

  My mother answers the door at eight that evening. I brandish a bag of Thai takeout, some popcorn, and my phone.

  “I’ve got Facebook, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

  She laughs and lets me in. “I’ll never forget how much you loved Shrek in middle school. You used a variation on that line for everything. ‘I’ve got a dragon, and I’m not afraid to use it.’”

  “It’s your fault. You taught me how to study film and movies and pop culture.”

  “Correction: I taught you that Shrek was full of irony.”

  I frown, shouldering my way into her place. “My life is full of irony.”

  Once inside, I flop down in a chair at the table and extract the pad thai and pumpkin curry. She grabs forks and plates.

  “Let’s just eat straight from the carton.”

  “My home. My rules. Use plates.”

  “Fine.”

  She serves the food and slides a plate in front of me. “So . . .”

  I sigh heavily. “You nailed it.”

  “Did I?”

  “When you said years in his eyes. You were right.”

  “And that means what, exactly?”

  I tell her everything. I’ve never held back from her. “And so, that’s why I thought we could stalk my Facebook page, like that rhymes-with-witch did, and study every single photo ever to see if we see it too. I mean, this is what you’re good at. Studying media.”

  With the forkful of noodles inches from her mouth, Mom shoots me a look. The look that says the cheese has slipped from the cracker. After she chews, she sets down the fork. “Let’s not. Why don’t we talk about it instead?”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. I don’t want to talk about it. I do want to talk about it. But talking about it won’t fix the bigger issue. I want the bigger issue fixed. I want him back. “It doesn’t matter if he loved me for ten years or ten seconds. He’s hung up on the past.”

  “Does it matter to you that he’s felt this way for years? Does it change anything for you?”

  A sob rattles up my throat, and I shake my head, answering with the whole truth. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I try to hold the tears at bay. “It doesn’t. And honestly, I didn’t stalk the photos. I didn’t spend my afternoon staring at photo albums.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went to work. I made chocolate. I fiddled with recipes. I served customers. And I missed him. It’s stupid because it’s only been one day, maybe two, that I realized I felt this way. And I don’t get it, Mom. Why do I miss him this intensely? It’s only been a few hours since I saw him. Well, it’s been nine hours, thirty-three minutes, and twenty-seven seconds since I told him to figure it out. And I miss him like it’s been years.”

  She fights off a grin. “Nine hours, thirty-three minutes, and twenty-seven seconds?”

  “Give or take on the seconds.”

  She laughs. “You miss him because you fell in love with him. You miss him because you want his love in return. He’s loved you for years; you’ve loved him for a few days. But to both of you it feels like years. Think about that.”

  I absorb her words, trying to absorb her meaning. But all I know is I long for him. Maybe this is how he felt for me all the time. That awareness makes my heart ache harder.

  “The thing is, I should be scared that he’s felt this way for a long time. I should want to go look at every photo, analyze every conversation, and study every e-mail. And I did feel that way for a while. For an hour, maybe.”

  “My my, yo
u have become the most efficient woman at processing your emotions.”

  I laugh lightly. “I think I have. I think that’s what I learned from my marriage. How to navigate through the storm. How to see when there wasn’t starlight to guide me. But I don’t need to pore over the past. I’ve done that. I’ve spent enough time on it. All I want is my future. And I can’t have it yet. I can’t have it unless Leo decides to navigate through his stuff.”

  Mom reaches for my hand. “The waiting is the hardest part.”

  “How long do I wait?”

  “How much do you love him?”

  “As much as I loved my tiara when I was nine. As much as I loved the twenty-five-thousand times I listened to Christina Aguilera in high school and drove you crazy, even though you’d never have admitted that out loud. And maybe, sometimes, more than chocolate. So what do I do?”

  She laughs. “You think I’m going to tell you what to do?”

  “Please. Just tell me. For once in your life.”

  She shakes her head and crosses her arms. “Not gonna do it.”

  I grab her arms, trying to uncross them. “Pretty please with multimedia analysis and popular culture discourse on top.”

  Her laughter bursts across her apartment. “Lulu, just be yourself. Wait for him. Or don’t wait for him. Speak your mind. Or don’t speak your mind. Tell him what’s in your heart. Or don’t tell him. Mostly, you do you. Because you?” She cups my cheek. “You are fabulous just the way you are. You are on the other side. And whatever you do, you’re going to be just fine.”

  She’s right.

  I am going to be fine.

  Maybe even better than fine. I can’t do a damn thing about his issues. But I can do something about how I feel.

  After we finish the Thai food, I grab my phone.

  But I don’t stalk wedding photos on Facebook or elsewhere.

  I text Cameron and Mariana, and I ask if they’re free this weekend.

  Then as Mom and I watch Shrek 2, pointing out the clever way the script both subverts and embraces fairy tales, I compose a letter in my head to Leo.

  I make plans to send it to him tomorrow.

  35

  Leo

  I swing at the white ball the next morning.

  It whizzes past me.

  Another white orb flies in my direction.

  With laser focus, I keep my eye on the ball and take aim as it sails over the plate. I connect in a satisfying thwack. The ball goes sailing all the way to the fence, smacking the chain link at the edge of the batting cages.

  I’m here because there’s no cemetery to go to. There are no graveside conversations to be had, like in the movies. Besides, graveside conversations are stupid. A rotting pile of bones can’t exonerate you.

  But something has to.

  Something has to give.

  I’ve tried running all night.

  I’ve tried furniture stripping all morning.

  The way I see it is this—the busier I can make myself, the better I can process and the sooner I can be with Lulu.

  If I push this boulder of the past higher up the hill, soon I’ll reach the top. And maybe it won’t come sliding back down to crush me.

  I zero in on another ball, whacking it to kingdom come.

  Yes. That’s it. More imaginary home runs. More time in the cage. More anything. I grit my teeth, willing myself to figure this out.

  “You know, it’s not about him.”

  I startle, and the next ball flies past me, landing with a thunk at my feet. I swivel around to find Dean outside the batting cage, and I turn off the machine. “What are you doing here?”

  “When I texted you this morning, you said you were going to the cages. A little slow on the uptake today, mate? Did you take one to the head?”

  “I mean, why did you come?”

  “It’s so nice to see you too.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m a fucking mess.”

  “I know.” He looks me over. Dean knows the basic details of what went down at the end of the hunt. I don’t keep secrets from Dean. “Leo, it’s not about him.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s not about him. It's about you. That’s what I came here to tell you. Because I had a feeling you were going to try to run your feelings away, strip them away, South American history them away. Am I getting warmer?”

  I gulp. More like red-hot. I leave the cage, joining him on the other side of it. “Very warm.”

  “Or perhaps whack them away.”

  “It’s not working.”

  “Shocking.”

  “So, what do I do?”

  He laughs. “You’re the man who always talks about choices. Why don’t you make a choice to move the fuck on?”

  “Gee. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “It’s not about thinking it. It’s about doing it.” He claps me on the back. “The present is a gift. Start acting like it. Otherwise, you’re going to be spending a lot of days and nights at the batting cage.”

  That’s all he says. That’s the only advice he drops on me. But it starts to wiggle around in my head, making its way to my heart.

  “Want to go a round?” I ask.

  He points to the ball machine. “Come to think of it, I do. And I believe the next round, and the one after that, and the next—they’re all on you.”

  He grabs a helmet from the ground, drops it on his head, walks into the cage, and proceeds to whack the hell out of baseballs for the next few minutes. He has cannons for arms. It’s insane, and as he nabs hit after hit, something loosens inside me.

  Something I didn’t realize was coiled too tight.

  A sadness I barely knew I had.

  I lost my best friend, and that stung.

  But I’ve gained something else along the way.

  Another one.

  This guy. Right here. He’s part of my present, part of my life, and I want to enjoy this time. He’s not the same kind of friend as Tripp. He doesn’t have to be.

  Dean’s himself, and I can be myself with him.

  As soon as that thought occurs to me, I let go of a little more of the guilt I’d been holding on to.

  I wasn’t always myself with Tripp. I was holding a big secret inside.

  But with Dean, I can be myself.

  And even though I definitely don’t want to spend my nights here at the cages, right now I’m sure this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

  When Dean’s done, I take my turn, and like that, we spend an hour or so at the batting cages, and it’s the most fun I’ve had with a buddy in ages.

  It’s fun, and it’s freeing, and when I return home, I’m ready to tackle what to do next.

  Then, when I unlock the door to my apartment, I find a letter on the floor.

  36

  Lulu

  Mariana is parked at the curb outside my apartment, Jackie O glasses on, her thick dark hair swept back in a black scarf with white polka dots, ’50s movie star. Cameron stretches his long legs in the passenger seat, shades on, tapping out a drumbeat to the rhythm of Tom Petty’s “American Girl” on the shiny car door.

  With my weekend bag slung over my shoulder, I rush down the steps to the . . . brand-new red convertible. Holy sexy automobile. “Where did you get this little slice of heaven?”

  “I won my last case,” Mariana says with a twinkle in her eyes. “So I treated myself.”

  Cameron raises a palm to high-five her. “It’s one helluva treat. And it’s good to be a lawyer.”

  She blows on her pewter-colored nails, perfectly polished. “Billable hours for the win, my friends. That’s what it’s all about.”

  Cameron points his thumb at her. “This is the kind of woman who needs a pantsuit. Someone who charges four hundred dollars an hour.”

  She pats his shoulder. “You’re cute. Four hundred an hour? Who do you think you’re dealing with?”

  “Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Esquire.”

  She taps his head, as if she’s bonking him. “Fiv
e hundred fifty dollars. Talk about them apples.”

  I hop into the back seat of the sweet sports car. “God bless Yale Law School graduates.”

  “You know it.”

  Cameron cranes his head around. “All right, my pretty ladies, let’s hit the road before I wrestle away the wheel. You do know sports cars are my temptation. I nearly bought a Ferrari at a car auction in Miami.”

  Mariana lowers her shades to stare at him. “You nearly bought a Ferrari? How does one nearly buy a Ferrari?”

  “I thought about it a lot. Dreamed about it. Fantasized about it too.”

  “That is not nearly buying a Ferrari,” Mariana corrects.

  “Besides, I thought you were dreaming about your mystery woman in Miami,” I tease. “Maybe you’ll tell us.”

  He chuckles deeply. “Maybe I will. For now, Lulu, turn your phone off for the weekend.”

  I make a show of hitting the power off button. They clap their approval, then Mariana leans a little closer to Cameron, their shoulders nearly touching. “If you’re good to me, I’ll let you drive once we’re in the Hamptons.”

  “Please, go on. Define good to you.”

  “No bitching about my driving is what’s good to me.”

  “I would never do that. Also, have I mentioned what great taste you have in music?”

  “Oh, you are smart.” Mariana turns the engine on and checks her mirrors. “All systems go for a weekend getaway. We need to make this girl un-sad.”

  A pinch of sadness fills my eyes as I kiss her cheek then his. “You guys are the best.”

  And they are—as soon as I told them I needed to escape for the weekend, Cameron booked a beach rental in the Hamptons, and Mariana offered to drive. That’s what friends are for.

  A lump rises in my throat as she pulls into traffic. It’s a knot of emotion for my friends.

  For the foundation of my new life in New York.

  My starting over.

  But before we leave the city, there’s one thing I need to do.

  I tap Mariana’s shoulder before she cranks the music too loud. “Can we make a pit stop first?”