Beauty and the Mustache

by Penny Reid

  “Well, either way—peasant or pheasant—it tastes like chicken. My patients bring me gifts too. Things like gift cards…and viruses.”

  Finally, Drew cracked a smile, his eyes losing some of their wariness. I was relieved that my comment seemed to break the weird tension that had plagued the evening since I’d walked into the kitchen wearing my pajamas. Eating in shared silence usually gave me heartburn.

  He surprised me by asking, “So, you like poetry?”

  I paused, my spoon halfway between the bowl and my mouth. I didn’t know Drew well enough to know why he’d asked the question or where we were going with it, so I decided to say, “Yes, I like poetry.”

  He nodded, stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth.

  “Do you?” I prompted, trying to encourage discussion. “Like poetry, that is. Do you like poetry?”

  He didn’t answer right away, opting instead to chew slowly and drink his beer. At length he responded with a dodgy, “Yeah.” Then silence.

  I waited for him to continue, since—after all—he’d been the one to broach the subject. But he didn’t. He just looked at his food like it was the most interesting thing in the room. Maybe to him it was.

  Tired of the silence, I said a little too loudly, “Well, that’s good. Look at all the things we have in common, Drew! Poetry and…T-shirts.” His eyes flickered to mine then back to his soup. If I was reading the sparkle in them correctly, he was amused.

  Amusement was preferable to soundless stoicism, so I carried on. “We even use the same soap—at least today we did. I bet we even use the same brand of razor. So tell me more about yourself.”

  “What do you want to know?” He said this without looking up.

  “Anything I guess. Where are you from?”

  “Texas.”

  “And where did you go to school?”

  “Texas A & M for undergrad; Baylor for postgrad.” Drew stood, grabbed my empty bowl, and put it in his. He stacked all the dinner dishes into a tidy pile and carried them to the sink.

  “Any hobbies?” I called after him.

  He grabbed two new plates from the cupboard. Like before, I watched him walk around his kitchen. His movements were graceful and unhurried, paradoxically lazy and efficient. It struck me that so many things about Drew were contradictory.

  Earlier today, he’d stroked my hair, called me sugar, rubbed my back; then, a few minutes ago, he’d glared at me with heated irritation when I walked in wearing pajamas. The last few weeks he’d been avoiding me, not making eye contact; then today, he covered me with a blanket while I slept. When he yelled at me for spending too much time in the den, and he sent Cletus out with fried chicken and potatoes.

  He held my mother’s power of attorney and was the executor of her will, but he paid our house bills out of his own pocket. I couldn’t figure him out.

  Drew returned to the table carrying two dessert plates, a knife, two forks, and the pie.

  Once settled in his seat, he cut into a lovely pecan pie, one of my favorites, my absolute favorite being lemon meringue pie made by my mother.

  At last he responded, though I was so focused on the pie that I almost forgot I’d asked a question.

  “I like to cook…and read.”

  Finally, something!

  “Me too.” I accepted the generous slice of pie and immediately took a bite. It was really, really good. I pointed to him with my fork and said, “Well, I like to eat, which is like cooking. This is good pie. I do like to read. See, that’s another thing we have in common—pie and books. So, what are you reading now?”

  “Nikola Tesla’s biography.”

  “I haven’t read that. What about fiction? What’s the last good novel you read?” I ate two more bites of pie.

  His subtle smile flattened and his eyes finally lifted to mine and held. “I don’t like fiction.”

  I blinked at him, and I’m sure my eyebrows were doing an interpretive dance of what was going on inside my brain. “You don’t like fiction?”

  “No. Never cared for it.”

  “Any fiction?” I chewed on a pecan as I considered him. “You’ve never enjoyed any fiction? How come you’re always reading fiction to my mom?”

  He shrugged. “Because she likes it.”

  “What about movies?”

  “I’m not really interested.”

  I gathered a slow, deep breath and studied his face. This explained a lot about him, why he was so joyless. A perfect vessel for Satan. Also, I’d finished my pie. So my expression of disappointment was two-fold.

  “Do you like fiction?” he asked.

  I nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes. I love novels. I love getting lost in someone else’s story, thinking about life from their perspective, living their experiences.”

  “Why don’t you live your own experiences?”

  I wrinkled my nose at this question. “Why would I do that when I can be a hundred different people a year? Live a hundred different lives. Love a hundred times without worrying about danger or risk. And all from the comfort of my reading chair.”

  Drew’s frown was severe and, unlike the other times he’d recited Nietzsche, he sounded a fair bit impassioned as he quoted, “‘There is not enough love and goodness in the world to permit giving any of it away to imaginary beings.’”

  I stared at him, his serious face, and his serious silvery eyes.

  Drew was an odd possum.

  “Okay,” I said, twisting my mouth to the side. “Well, I guess we’ve found something we don’t have in common. And for the record, I dislike Nietzsche.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why? Does it make you uncomfortable when someone challenges you?”

  I could feel my blood pressure rising, mostly because Drew looked as though he was enjoying himself, my pie was all gone, and he hadn’t yet touched his own.

  Who makes a pecan pie then ignores his own slice? And this was a truly remarkable pie. I’d scarfed mine down and was hoping for another piece. I hated that he had such a firm grasp on his self-control.

  I didn’t respond right away, and maybe I waited too long, because he said, “Perhaps if you spent more time with real people instead of fictional people, honest discussions wouldn’t be so uncomfortable for you.”

  “I spend plenty of time with real people. You’ve met my friends Sandra and Elizabeth. Do you think I spend Tuesday nights with them discussing the weather? And I have a lot more friends besides.”

  “Is that where you would be now if you were in Chicago?”

  This thought depressed me. I was missing my friends. “Yes. Today’s Tuesday, isn’t it? I’d be with my knitting group right about now….”

  “So you like living in the city?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged, searching for the words, and coming up a little thin on reasons. I liked my knitting group. I liked that people didn’t know me, didn’t automatically expect me to be Darrell Winston’s trashy daughter. I liked that I’d been able to reinvent myself. I liked that I was respected at my job. I liked my independence.

  Finally, I settled on, “I like my friends. And I like the culture.”

  His gaze narrowed as he quoted, “In individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule.”

  I glared at him and tsked. “Did you just call my knitting group insane, Nietzsche? That’s not nice, especially after Elizabeth made you that delicious ravioli.”

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t know your knitting group well enough to label them as insane. But I am calling clustered society insane. Don’t you find conformism and adhering to arbitrary societal norms suffocating?”

  “I find small minds suffocating, yes. But there are just as many small minds in the backwoods of Tennessee as in the bustling metropolis of Chicago.”

  He scoffed. “Except in the backwoods of Tennessee you don’t have to answer to them; you don’t even have t
o speak to them.”

  “Unless they kidnap you and make you eat peasant soup and pie.”

  His grin was immediate, and it looked like it took him by surprise, because he quickly tried to cover it by clearing his throat. “You don’t have pie with your knitting group?”

  “Not pie that tastes this good, but I still miss them.”

  “Instead you’re here with me, having a great time, and not at all uncomfortable.” He was still fighting his grin.

  I couldn’t believe anyone would ever call Drew shy or reserved. He wasn’t shy. He was a bear, and he was pawing at me.

  “I’m not uncomfortable,” I snapped, but that was a lie. I was uncomfortable. And I was hot. And I was getting angry. “Maybe I just don’t like bossy, presumptuous, mule-headed men who take forever to eat their pie.”

  His smile was wide and immediate. “So, what is your type?”

  “I don’t really have a type.”

  “Everyone has a type.”

  “Fine, what’s yours?”

  “Small, petite, blonde, big boobs.” He made a curving motion in front of his chest with his hands, presumably to emphasize the bigness of the boobs, or to demonstrate that he might—in fact—be a big boob. His beard twitched, but his eyes were sober. I couldn’t tell if he was serious or if he was being purposefully irritating.

  Because here’s the thing, when a girl asks a guy what his type is, she wants at least one of her physical characteristics to be a match. Otherwise, she’s just been told he considers her repulsive.

  Behold the logic of the female brain!

  Alas, I am five foot nine; therefore, not small and petite. I have very brown hair and not big boobs, at least, not as big as Drew seemed to prefer.

  I nodded slowly, fought against the urge to tally up his physical characteristics and claim swoony allegiance to his outward opposite. Under normal circumstances, I was politely honest to a fault, because that’s how my momma raised me. Drew wreaked havoc on normal, and now I was tempted to irritate him in return.

  I sucked in a large, silent breath, and forced myself to elbow past the petty desire. Maybe it was just a sign of my exhaustion.

  I ultimately answered with honesty. “Fine. You want to know my type?”

  He half nodded, half shrugged, but his eyes were bright and betrayed his interest. “Sure.”

  “Okay.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “My type has a romantic soul. He’ll make my brain and my heart fight over who gets him first. He does what’s right, even when it’s not easy—actually, especially when it’s not easy. He knows the value of discipline, education, honor, and restraint. And his strength of character is the only thing that outweighs the strength of his love for me.”

  Drew’s eyes flickered across my face as I spoke. The earlier sobriety in his gaze sharpened; otherwise, he held perfectly still.

  I readied myself to be mocked. But it didn’t come.

  Several seconds passed during which we regarded each other like two wary statues. The air grew thick and my neck itched; it felt like a pressing weight on my shoulders. But the heaviness was weighted with a meaning I was likely too tired and aggravated to process.

  When I could take no more of his steady silent stare, I added, “That’s my type. You know, fictional.”

  I didn’t miss his wince or the way his shoulders bunched at my use of the word fictional, which he found so offensive. I surmised fictional was his least favorite f-word. In response, I gave him a rueful smile.

  “Fictional,” he said in a flat, emotionless tone.

  I nodded. “That’s right. Fictional.”

  “You think no man exists who has honor?”

  “You tell me, Nietzsche.”

  He wrinkled his nose as though my words gave him a bad taste in his mouth. “Nietzsche wasn’t opposed to honor. He wanted people to challenge established societal norms that suffocate individuality and freedom.”

  I shook my head, annoyed that I was now forced to quote Nietzsche. “Okay, you give me no option, Drew. Here’s Nietzsche, and I quote: ‘To strive for honor means to make oneself superior and wish that that also be publicly evident. If the first is lacking and the second nevertheless desired, one speaks of vanity. If the latter is lacking and not missed, one speaks of pride.’ Nietzsche equated honor with pride and vanity.”

  Drew stared at me, his eyes filled with wonder. “How did you…?”

  “Of course you’re surprised. You think women are cows.” While he was distracted, I picked up my fork and nabbed a large bite of his pecan pie. It was good pie, and if he wasn’t going to eat it then I would.

  Just for fun, I said, “Moo.”

  At length Drew released a long-suffering sigh that ended with a laugh. He shook his head, staring at me like I was a fascinating new species. I liked how his white teeth were framed by his lips and beard when he grinned. I hated that I noticed.

  “Your ability to quote Nietzsche verbatim is incredibly annoying,” he finally admitted.

  “Is it?” I lifted my eyebrow and stole another bite of his pie, pausing before I stuffed my face to say, “Or is it fantastic?”

  “It’s fantastic…” he mumbled, his eyes lowering to my mouth, “…and sexy.”

  I was startled by the admission, and I choked on Drew’s pie. My eyes wide, I reached for my glass of water and chugged three gulps before setting the glass back to the table and regarding him.

  I didn’t actually believe my ears, so I struggled for a moment before my mouth formed its question. “What?”

  “What?” He snapped, lifted a single eyebrow in challenge.

  “What did you just say?”

  “You heard me.” Once again, his voice was deep, steady, and intimate—his eyes watchful and intent.

  The top of my head felt hot, as did my chest, and my neck was on fire. I couldn’t believe he’d said that. I just…I couldn’t fathom it. It was way, way down on the list of things I’d expected Drew to say to me, ever, probably because I was in denial.

  I could feel my shocked stare turn into a livid glare, and my jaw ached because I was clenching it so hard.

  Pretty face, nice piece of ass, low class accent. That’s what I was.

  Drew—fictionally handsome vessel of Satan—had just really, really pissed me off. I was bruised and cut and drowning in grief. I didn’t need to hear that I was sexy, especially not from him; not from the guy who held my mother’s power of attorney and couldn’t seem to make up his mind whether he despised me or liked me.

  Because, the terrible truth was, I thought he was sexy too.

  I thought he was off-the-charts sexy with his cooking and reading and brooding and shirtlessness and breathing—which meant he was a user and an asshole. And it would be completely troublesome for us to be attracted to each other. It would be epically problematic. The potential for disastrous heartbreak was momentous.

  My mother was dying. Dying. I’d just stood up to a bear and murdered a rabid raccoon. Then I’d been dragged back here, made to take a shower with his wonderful-smelling soap, wear his shirt, eat his delicious dinner, and engage in a battle of wits.

  I was surrounded by Drew, assaulted on all sides.

  I didn’t want this. I wanted none of it. I wanted my mother to be healthy. I wanted Chicago and books. I wanted comfort and contentment and predictability. I wanted my knitting group and Tuesday night shenanigans.

  Maybe one day I’d find a nice normal man—an accountant or an actuary—who tinkered with clocks. I’d be up front about the arrangement so there’d be no hurt feelings, and he’d be content with companionship in lieu of passion.

  Or maybe I’d just have my friends and myself, and that would be great. I could deal with that. I was fine with that. That was my life now, and I was happy.

  What I didn’t need or want was a bossy PhD game warden from Texas with sexy brains and sexy eyes and sexy everything. Because my heart was now smarter than he was sexy, it warned me that Drew would be my biggest mistake yet. I didn’
t have the strength to recover from the death of my mother and another man making me feel like trash.

  “Why would you say that?” My voice was a bit shrill, and I had a hard time keeping the volume low enough to be considered indoors appropriate.

  “Because it’s true.”

  I shook my head, slowly at first, then faster. “You are such an ass.”

  I stood from the table, scraping my chair against the floor, but then I hesitated. He’d made dinner and cleared the dinner plates. Good manners dictated that I needed to clear the dessert plates and do the dishes.

  Instead of leaving indignantly like I wanted to do, I surprised us both by pointing to his barely-touched pie and demanding, “Are you finished with that?”

  “Why? Do you want my pie?” He asked this as though he was offering me more than pie, and the softness of his tone caught me off guard.

  I sputtered for a few seconds then said, “No. I don’t. I don’t want your stupid delicious pie.”

  I grabbed my plate and fork and the dish of remaining pecan pie and its cover. I marched to the kitchen, chucked my plate in the sink, covered the pie plate, and found a home for it in the refrigerator.

  Then, my fury a cloak of impervious distraction, I crossed to the sink and began doing the dishes.

  I’d finished our bowls, dessert plates, and utensils, and was about to go back to the table for the glasses when Drew reached around me and turned off the faucet.

  “Sugar, stop doing the dishes.”

  “Fine. They’re all done anyway.” I turned away from him and reached for the dry towel on the counter. “I want to go home. Will you please call one of my brothers to take me home?”

  “Ash….”

  “Listen, Drew.” I faced him, my heart pounding in my chest, and I summoned every bit of ingrained politeness I had. “Thank you for dinner. Thank you for the shower and your soap and your shirt. Thank you for driving me here and for carrying me down the hill. Now will you please call one of my brothers to take me home?”

  His eyes seemed to be searching mine. His expression was guarded, but I perceived flashes of dejection and misery there.

  “I’ll take you home,” he said quietly.