Rick had classic country-club good looks. His blond hair fell in perfect layers. He probably had it cut weekly and styled it meticulously before heading out. His face had all the hallmarks of generic beauty—blue eyes, straight nose, clear skin, great lips. He obviously had a stable job with a fat paycheck. I bet he owned his own house or condo and vacationed somewhere warm regularly. If I were scoring him on looks and job alone, he’d get high marks.
“So, Rick. How is it you’re still single?”
He cut a glance at me. “I just haven’t found the right girl, yet. I take commitment very seriously.” His teeth were fucking perfect.
Once in a while, Mom set me up with guys who seemed all right on paper. So far a reason always emerged to explain why they needed to be set up in the first place. But since I was being set up too, I tried not to judge.
Nine times out of ten, I managed to find a compelling excuse to head her meddling off at the pass. She was persistent, though. She figured if she threw enough spaghetti at the wall, something might stick. But her notions of unacceptable were worlds apart from my own. While I balked at dating a guy who touched people’s teeth for a living, she saw nothing inappropriate in suggesting I give her forty-five-year-old gynecologist a chance.
Finally, we pulled into a parking lot. I looked out the window to discover Rick had taken me to an Applebee’s.
After he gave his name to the hostess, we sat, hips pressed together, in the waiting area with a square plastic buzzer. The narrow bench caused me to slide forward, and after a few minutes, I finally asked if he’d mind taking a seat at the bar until our table was ready.
The whole restaurant was crowded with people hollering at the TVs hanging from the walls. I glanced back at Rick to find his eyes glued to the game.
“So my hair caught fire this morning,” I said.
“Huh?” He refocused on me.
“I asked if we should order drinks.”
“Yeah, sure.” He flagged the bartender and ordered a couple of beers without consulting me. It so happened I wanted a beer, so I didn’t correct him.
“I don’t think I’ve been to this Applebee’s.” I needed to get my sarcasm in check fast. It wasn’t Rick’s fault I didn’t want to be there.
“Yeah? I come here all the time.” The beers arrived, and he laid a single on the bar. “So, what’s Micah doing? Is he still playing music?”
Here was a topic I could speak on. “Yeah, he’s doing really well actually. I just went to see him play last night.”
“God, I haven’t seen him in so long. I still remember one time he played at some kid’s graduation party or something.”
I laughed. “Jeff O’Riordan?”
“Yeah, I think so. And you came up onstage and sang something.”
I wracked my brain, trying to recall that night. “Was it ‘Piece of My Heart’?”
His eyes lit up. “Maybe. I just remember you were so great. I always thought you’d be the one to do something like that. I mean, Micah was always talented, but you had something. Why didn’t you pursue that?”
“Music? That’s a hobby, not a career.”
He knit his brow. “Does Micah know you look down on his career?”
I choked on my beer and coughed. “Micah knows I support him fully. And he supports me. I actually envy him for taking such a risky path. But I guess I wanted to do something”—I tried to recall how I’d ended up analyzing mouse sperm—“more traditional.”
When I first decided to major in biochemistry, it felt like anything but traditional. After years of struggling with my parents’ faith-based explanations of the world, I loved that science provided quantifiable answers to the great questions of life, the universe, and everything. But after I graduated, I traded cosmic knowledge for cold hard cash. I knew Anubis Labs specialized in erection enhancement pills, but they seduced me with promises of stability. They operated near my hometown, and I needed to pay off my student loans and start saving money to go back to grad school. But it was a hard sell for my parents.
Penile turgidity in mice is a fun thing to explain to your dad when he asks how your fancy degree in biochemistry has helped you.
Mouse boners have the added bonus of impressing Mom, who’s convinced herself that you’re still a virgin.
Rick raised his glass. “So what are you doing these days?”
Back to this question. “Mainly just making money to pay my way through grad school. It’s always been my plan to go back to school to research genetic diseases.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. My current ambivalence about that career path didn’t negate the goals that got me to where I was.
He swallowed. His upper lip glistened with unconsumed beer. “So you’re doing medical research?”
“Sort of.” I grimaced. “Turns out all the money’s tied up in researching better orgasms.”
Rick’s face dropped. If this were a movie, he’d have done a spit take. I realized I’d let down my guard, talking like I would to Micah. “What I mean is—”
The buzzer erupted in bright red lights, chasing each other around the square. Rick jumped up, and we headed back to the hostess stand to be led to our table.
When we sat down, I combed through my memories to find something about him I could talk about. He’d been in Micah’s class, not mine. But Micah was always popular and bringing his friends over. Most of the kids I knew were his age, and after his class graduated, I felt left behind. I still couldn’t remember anything about Rick. Had he played lacrosse? Or soccer?
Rick busied himself looking over the menu, even though he’d probably memorized it. The waitress came, and he told her, “We’ll start with the spinach and artichoke dip. Then”—he scanned the Two for Twenty menu and pointed at a picture—“I’ll have the sirloin.”
The waitress jotted it down. She lifted her eyes off her pad. Before I could speak, Rick added. “And she’ll have”—he looked up at me—“the fiesta lime chicken?”
The waitress had already gathered our menus and walked off before I could recover from the shock. “What made you think I wanted that?”
He shrugged. “You didn’t contradict me.”
“I’m perfectly capable of ordering for myself.” I took a deep breath. “Whatever. It’s fine.” I stared up at the TV to try to find the time. Rick looked up as well, and his eyes glazed over as though he’d decided to give up and watch the football game.
The chips and dip arrived. I poked at it, struggling for something to say. I brought up my mental checklist and appended new additions to the deal-breaker list. The pros list needed a touch up as well, since I’d apparently left out some vital characteristics, such as “knee-buckling smolder” and “sexy as a motherfucker.” God, I was no better than Stacy or Kelly talking about one of their latest celebrity crushes. I liked to think I was more responsible than that. Would I really rate sex over a safe and solid future?
Maybe I was in the right job after all.
I gave Rick another appraisal. Suppose I married this guy. I’d never have to worry about anything. I knew where we’d live, where we’d “summer.” We’d have a family, and our kids would have pearly white teeth and names like Emily and Noah. And I’d start drinking at three. And he’d murder me one night in my sleep. And everyone would talk about what a perfect couple we always seemed like.
A waitress passed by, and Rick’s eyes dropped down to her ass right as she skirted our table. And that was it. My future husband was already cheating on me.
I nearly asked him to take me home right then, but practicality won out: I was starving. I hadn’t eaten since that morning. I hadn’t had anything at all since a half-naked Adam had served me pancakes.
I gasped for air.
What was I doing there? With all his perfect hair and perfect teeth, his perfect clothes and perfect job, the man sitting across from me never stood a chance. His eyes connected with mine, and he looked like he might attempt to engage in small talk, but I was done playing the game.
“So, Ri
ck, do you have any interesting tattoos?”
“What?”
“Tattoos? Do you have any?”
His lip curled. “No. Do you?”
“Not yet.” I picked up a tortilla chip. “Do you cook?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course not. Do you play poker?”
And at that moment, I just quit, as I realized Rick had done from the moment I dropped the O bomb anyway. For a sexist pig, he sure was a prude.
We suffered through our meal with only a few barbed grenades lobbed over the course of the next hour. The fiesta lime chicken turned out to be the best part of the night.
He drove me home to the dulcet sounds of Robin Thicke, walked me to my door, and said, “Thanks for coming out. We’ll have to do it again sometime,” in monotone. Then without a handshake or a pat on the shoulder, he left.
I never told him he’d had a piece of spinach caught in his perfect teeth for the past hour.
It was early still, so I called Stacy and invited her to come over to watch Say Anything. Again. As soon as she dropped her jacket and grabbed a soda, she sat on the sofa and pried into my business.
“How was your date?”
“Soul crushing.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating, Eden. What was today’s deal breaker? Did he smell weird or something?”
“I wouldn’t know.” I tried to remember if I’d even noticed. Instead, my mind drifted, and I could almost recall the way Adam smelled. If I could bottle that up and sell it, I’d make millions. Except I’d probably keep it for myself. But I’d much rather get it from the source. The thought of touching Adam’s skin made my knees weak, and I plopped down beside Stacy. “I need to revise my checklist to include ‘Swoon worthy.’ Rick was definitely not.”
“You need to let me see this list. If that wasn’t already on there, you’ve been doing it wrong.” She sat up straight. “Hey, so Micah called earlier looking for you. He said you both spent the night at some guy’s house, but he didn’t know when you left. You weren’t here, so . . . where were you?”
“Speaking of swoon worthy . . . You have to promise not to say anything to Micah. Not yet anyway. He’d disapprove.”
“You slept with that guy, didn’t you?”
The smile that broke across my face refused to be contained.
She sat up straight, eyes wide. “I was only kidding. Holy shit.” She knew me well enough to know it was unprecedented, but she segued easily back into prying. “So what’s he like?”
“Cute. Very. But he’s a bit on the grungy side.”
She crossed her arms and cocked her head in friendly condescension. “Like you, then?”
“I’m not grungy. I’m just not as girly as you. Anyway, when we got to his place, Micah fell asleep. Adam showed me his bedroom, and things heated up very fast.” Thinking back on how fast, I experienced a secondary wave of exhilaration, like that unexpected hill on the backside of a roller coaster.
“So who is he? What does he do? Does he have a brother? Did you take any pictures?”
I held up a finger to stop her incessant line of questions, cracking up at the image of photographing Adam in the state he was in when I left.
“One question at a time. His name is Adam Copeland.” Her face lit up at the name. “No, not that Adam Copeland, though he is a musician.”
“A musician named Adam Copeland, eh?”
“Seriously, Stacy. It’s just a coincidence. He was at the club interviewing to play bass for my brother’s band.” I replayed the earlier conversation and recalled my assumption had been wrong. “No wait, that’s not right. I don’t know why he was at the club.”
Stacy frowned and slumped. “That’s too bad. Adam Copeland is seriously smoking hot.”
I glared at her. “And you think my Adam isn’t?”
“Well, I don’t know. How old is he? What’s he look like?”
“Not sure about his age, but I’d guess maybe twenty-seven. North of twenty-five, south of thirty, or else he doesn’t look his age. He has dark hair, blacker than mine. It looks like he’s never met a brush. He’s not super tall, but maybe just under six feet.”
“Dark hair, huh? How’d he make it inside your perimeter without getting shot down?”
“Well, he didn’t. Not at first. But then . . .” I thought back to the night before. When he’d touched me to smell my perfume, something had ignited. But no, before that. When he’d first smiled at me, he’d already breached the fortress.
And those eyes.
“His eyes are brown, I think.”
“You think?”
“They’re dark, so dark. His lips are . . . God . . . wonderful. Um. Oh, and he has a mess of tattoos.”
“Tattoos?” She picked up her phone and started tapping on the screen.
Despite her apparent loss of interest, I answered her question anyway. “Yeah, I know. Deal breaker, right?”
“Can you describe them?” She hadn’t taken her eyes off her phone and punched and scrolled all the while feigning curiosity about my life.
“His tattoos?” I made a duck face and rolled my eyes up, as though that would unlock the image in my memory. “Hmm. One was a star. Another was something to do with Led Zeppelin. Then he had some designs across his chest. They were all black.”
Hearing myself describe him, I smiled at all the boxes I normally would’ve mentally ticked to turn away any other guy. Should I mention to Stacy that he was skinny and lived at his parents’? Should I tell her he didn’t even keep condoms around? He obviously wasn’t a virgin—or even lacking in experience. Maybe he’d had a dry spell. Not that I could judge anyone else for that, given my track record. And quite honestly, I found it endearing.
In fact, despite every mental reservation I should have, I wanted to see him again. Despite his imperfections, he was kind of perfect. And I hoped he’d call me.
Stacy broke my reverie, shoving her phone into my face. “Is this him?”
On her phone, Adam stood outside a restaurant, dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans, with a glamorous woman attached to his elbow. I snapped my eyes back up at her. “How’d you get a picture of him?”
“I didn’t. I did a Google image search. That’s the Adam Copeland.”
I snatched the phone from her and scrolled through the rest of the image results. A photo shoot with his band. A fan picture taken from several rows back at a concert. More pictures of him out and about on the street.
My heart jumped into my throat. I scrolled back to the photo-shoot pictures. They made him look a thousand times more beautiful than he was in person. But I’d take the real Adam over this plastic rock star any day of the week.
A picture popped up with him onstage, hands wrapped around the mic, sweat pouring off his face, face twisted in mid-song rapture, one leg bent in front of the other—in those leather pants.
“Oh, my God.” A wave of dizziness hit me, and I dropped the phone on the sofa. “Why didn’t he tell me?” When I asked him about his name, he’d purposely misled me. He knew I didn’t know and didn’t correct my misunderstanding. Damn if he didn’t know how to tell a lie just so.
I grabbed Stacy’s shoulders and shook her. “Why didn’t he tell me?!”
Stacy grabbed my shoulders back and leaned her forehead against mine, fixing my eyes with hers. “Eden. Maybe he wanted to make sure you liked him for the right reasons? You know how it is with Micah.”
I knew exactly how it was with Micah. Fans often thought they knew him and came on strong, offering themselves up to him with absolutely no provocation. Most of them were pretty cool, but once in a while he’d get a superfan who fell in love with him. Trouble was, they weren’t in love with Micah at all. How could they be? They didn’t know him. They knew the guy they saw onstage or at the merch table for a few minutes. They knew the guy they’d pieced together from information swapped and shared. But they didn’t know my brother.
Micah appreciated his fans and gave them ac
cess to interact with him as much as they might like within the confines of his gigs. But he never dated them, not even the cool ones. Outside of his work, he found it tiresome to deal with people who knew more about him than he knew about himself. I’d only experienced it secondhand. Knowing about his sister seemed to be a point on the fandom trivial pursuit.
“You might be right.” I sat back and took a breath. “Maybe he’d rather sleep with a girl who thought he was nobody special.”
Stacy’s eyes opened wide, as though the reality of the situation finally hit home. “I can’t believe you had sex with Adam Copeland. Oh, my God. What’s he like?”
“Were you even listening? I just got through describing him to you.”
“No, I mean, what’s he really like? How does he kiss? Oh, my God, what’s his you know like?”
“Do you hear yourself, Stacy?” I hated to disappoint her, but I wasn’t about to recount the graphic details of my night. “He’s just a regular guy. You’d never know he was some famous rock star.”
“But he totally is. Do you know how lucky you are? Do you know how many people would’ve loved to swap places with you last night?”
“I guess. I still wish he’d told me.”
“Does it make a difference to you? I mean, would you have treated him differently if you knew?”
I replayed the night, imagining I knew he was famous the whole time. He wasn’t anybody I’d ever followed, so in that regard, I didn’t care. But it certainly would’ve messed with my self-confidence. Why would someone who could have anyone he wanted pick me?
“I suppose I would have. I might’ve been nicer about his band. Oh! And . . .”
I reached for my phone and Googled his band. After a few clicks I found what I wanted.
“Holy shit. He’s playing Madison Square Garden right now. And he invited me to tag along.” I hit my forehead with my palm. “I’m an idiot.”
“See? He probably loved that you didn’t give a shit about hanging around with his band. But do me a favor and snag me some backstage passes next time. Oh, my God!”
Some Kind of Magic Page 5