by Logan Belle
And yet, the night feels incomplete without sharing it with him. I hesitate only for a second before typing the text, First item on the list officially checked off.
I stare at my phone, waiting for a response.
And I wait.
Chapter 9
I’m at lunch when I finally hear from him.
Congrats on a successful evening.
I smile, my heart leaping.
“Something funny?” Patti asks across the table.
We’re eating at Bella Italia, a pizza place on Lancaster Avenue that has had the same red, white, and green awning since I was a kid. It also happens to have the best cheese steak for miles around, but it’s a neighborhood secret.
It’s a five minute walk from the store, and Patti and I come here at least once a week — always saying we’re “just having a salad.” Today we order identical steak sandwiches with onions and sweet peppers. I forgo my usual Diet Coke and instead just opt for water. It’s one of the healthier lifestyle changes I’m making — no soda. I should probably cross cheese steaks off my list, too. But…baby steps.
It was tough to find a table. The place is filled with the student lunch crowd from nearby Lower Merion High School. When I was a student, sneaking off-campus for lunch was a suspension-worthy offense. By the time Max was a senior, the kids were allowed to leave. It seemed crazy to me. Maybe Patti is right — I’m not good with change.
She looks at me expectantly.
“Oh, just a text,” I say.
She cocks an eyebrow. “From Max?”
Of course Patti thinks the only one who would be texting me is my son. Still high off my make-out session with “Allen with an e,” I’m tempted to correct this assumption. But I don’t. I’m not ready to tell her about Justin or The List. She wouldn’t understand, and I’m not sure I can explain it to her.
“Yeah. Sorry to be texting while we’re here but it will just take a sec,” I say, bent over my phone and already tapping away.
Looks like you had a successful evening yourself.
He writes back, Looks can be deceiving. It was pretty anticlimactic.
“Look at you — you’re positively beaming!” Patti says. “Seeing the joy you get from your son really makes me regret that Geoff and I were never blessed.”
I hate lying to her.
“But you have each other, Patti,” I say, suddenly feeling wistful. I have a mental image of them together, and it makes the kiss and my adventures with Justin seem positively trivial.
And then, for a reason I do not understand, I start crying. Maybe it’s my exhaustion from a late night. Maybe it’s alcohol-induced depression. Whatever it is, my mood goes into free-fall.
“Oh, hon, no. I didn’t meant to upset you,” she says, reaching across the small table and holding my hand.
“It’s not you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I blow my nose into a paper napkin.
“You don’t know what’s wrong with you? You have cancer, for god’s sake! Frankly, I’m relieved to see you expressing some emotion over this whole thing. You’ve been holding way too much inside, Claire. It’s not good for you.”
She thinks this is about the cancer. I wish it was. I know how to fight the cancer. I don’t know what to do with these new feelings. Last night was fun, but maybe it’s too much for me.
My car is still downtown. I took a cab to work. See — everything was so simple before I tried to be happy.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Really. But can you do me a favor?”
“Anything,” she says, squeezing my arm.
“Can you drive me downtown after work to pick up my car?”
She is obviously taken aback by the request, but quickly recovers. “Sure, honey. But why is your car downtown?”
“Don’t ask.”
*** ***
“Claire Romi?” A young, redheaded guy wearing a black t-shirt that reads “Spee-D Delivery” in yellow lettering appears at my counter, holding a package. He’s got his ear buds in and I hear his music, so I doubt he hears me reply in the affirmative. I simply nod, sign the paper he thrusts toward me, and accept the package.
The box is wide but flat. It’s pinstriped in pink, cream, and black, and finished off with a big black bow.
“Oh, I just love The Hope Chest!” says my customer, Joan Floritz. Of course she recognizes the packaging. Joan is an Olympian shopper.
She’s a brassy, fifty-something blond who’s always dressed like she’s either on her way to or from the tennis court. She never leaves without spending two hundred dollars. Every season, she asks me for a full make-over in the new colors, and buys everything I put on her face. Today, she made an appointment to go through Chanel’s fall colors.
This year the collection is called “Superstition” and is themed after “The symbols of good fortune that Gabrielle Chanel loved most.” And I can’t help but finding the names of the new lipsticks more than a little coincidental. A pale, barely-there pink called “Instinct.” A pink with brown undertones called “Secret.” And a deeper, blush-colored pink called “Rendez-vous.”
I hand her the lighter shade of lipstick, trying to avoid the elephant in the room. Or, rather, the package on my counter.
“I know you like a darker lip, but if you go lighter, you can do the smoky eye with this limited edition, four-shade eye shadow compact.” Chanel is big on making certain products “limited edition.” And those things always sell like hotcakes because god forbid anyone misses out on something.
Joan, like a dog with a bone, is not about to let the package go. “What did you order?” she says to me. “I just got the most fabulous pair of Cosabella panties.”
The fact that she thinks I shop at The Hope Chest is a little crazy to me. But no crazier than the truth. Did Justin send this to me? Allen?
“Oh, just some…you know.”
She winks at me. “Spanx?”
Why does she think I ordered Spanx? I suck in my stomach.
“Exactly. Nothing exciting,” I say, stuffing the box behind the cosmetics bay.
*** ***
I can’t wait until I get home. I’m in the parking lot, balancing the box on the hood of my car while I use my keys to loosen the ribbon. Is it possible that Allen found out my name and where I work? Unlikely. And the truth is, I don’t want it to be from Allen.
I tear open the tissue paper held together by a thin clear sticker. When I pull the delicate sheets apart I find a black, spidery garment that isn’t a bra but isn’t underwear. Next to it is a pair of gossamer-thin black stockings. And there’s a cream-colored envelope.
Laughter from a pack of teenagers walking from the frozen yogurt shop startles me. I grab the box and hop into my car, putting the package in the passenger seat while I tear open the envelope and read the card.
Congratulations on a major first step. I thought I’d contribute to # 2. Sexy lingerie in case you’d forgotten. On to #3
My hand is shaking when I slip the card back into the envelope. I toss it onto the passenger seat along with the box. Garters and stockings.
I’m both thrilled, and terrified.
Because now The List is real. It is happening. And I have no idea if I can go through with it.
Chapter 10
“My pussy is so wet for him. But as usual, he wants my ass. It’s something his ex-wife would never do with him, and so I feel it is my way to compete — to distract him from his obsession with the perfect woman who left him. She was his ideal woman, and yet she did not give him this one thing, and so it is my pleasure and pain to be on all fours, the whore to her madonna, wanton and willing though I know as he presses his cock into my barely yielding flesh, I am no closer to having him.”
Suzanne is reading tonight, and I’m surprised to hear this type of story from her. Although I’d told Justin the salon was sort of a fiction workshop, I am beginning to see he might not be so far off with his notion it’s an X-rated confessional.
I plan on sharing t
his thought with Justin — who has not responded to my text from yesterday thanking him for the lingerie. But he’s not in the coffee room either.
I am disturbed by my disappointment. I tell myself it doesn’t make a difference — that’s not why I come here anyway. But the sinking feeling does not go away, and even as I make small-talk with Bonnie, the woman I sat next to the first time I showed up at the salon, and then later with Suzanne, my mood plummets.
He’s probably moved on to something else, bored with the AA women, just as he will tire of this little game he’s playing with me. He probably just felt sorry for me when I started spilling my guts at the pub that first night. I cringe at the thought.
I check my phone. Nothing.
“Will you think about it?” Suzanne says.
“What?” He’s probably with that brunette from Red Ruby’s.
“Reading something? I think you’ll find it extremely liberating,” Suzanne says.
“Oh, I don’t know. Like I said, I’m not a writer.”
“Don’t think about what you’ve written or can write. Think about what you’ve lived. You know what they say about writing — it’s not about making something up, it’s about getting something down. Just take a notepad or your laptop and see what happens.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, just to end the conversation. It suddenly feels too hot and crowded. I throw my coffee cup in the garbage, and leave.
*** ***
Midnight greets me at the door. I scoop her into my arms and carry her to the couch, where the box of lingerie sits where I left it last night. I eye it suspiciously. I wonder if I can return it. Or exchange it. Maybe for some Spanx.
“Are you hungry, little miss Midnight?” She is now on her back, exposing her belly to me. “I know I’m hungry.”
I walk into the kitchen, wondering what I can defrost for dinner. I think I have a lasagna in there from last week.
My cell rings, startling both of us. She scampers off, and I dig into my bag.
“Hello?”
“Hey — are you still at the Y?” Justin asks, sounding breathless.
My heart skips fast. Had I been wrong this whole time? Was he there and I missed him and now he’s looking for me?
“No — are you?”
“Nah. Busy doing some recon for number three on The List.”
“What?”
“Reconnaissance. A little research mission. I think I found something you’ll like.”
I know I should play along, but I’m suddenly not in the mood to be his pet project. Whatever the reason for him not being at the Y tonight, the feelings his absence stirred aren’t something I can shake now that he’s surfaced.
“Okay. Well, it’s late and I’m kind of tired so…”
“Oh, no you don’t. I’m coming to pick you up. We have a field trip tonight.”
I automatically stand up and look at myself in the mirror hanging behind the couch. I need blush. And lipstick. And…what am I thinking?
“Why are you doing this?” I say.
“Doing what?”
“All of this. With me? I mean, buying me lingerie…that’s a little above and beyond conversation and hanging out in the name of some list we came up with.”
“Well, I definitely wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known it was going to make you pissed off. I just wanted to congratulate you on getting out there and doing something. And also to move you along to number three.”
“I don’t need your pity.”
“Oh, don’t give me that shit, Romi. You know that’s not what this is about.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, I’m happy to explain it to you. Face to face. What’s your address?”
From my living room window, I see Justin pull into the driveway in a black Mercedes. I don’t want him coming to the front door, because then I’ll have to invite him in. I’m not ready to open my home to him. I’ve already opened up too much. So I head him off by hurrying outside just as he is getting out of the car.
“You shouldn’t have bothered to come over here,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere tonight,” I say.
“At least hear me out.”
“Okay, I’ll hear you out. But that’s it.”
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“No.”
“Then at least sit in the car for a minute. Unless you want all your neighbors to hear us. Which, considering the direction our conversations usually go, I doubt you want that.”
“Fine,” I say. He opens the passenger side door and I awkwardly as I slide into the seat.
He’s wearing gray pants and a blue pinstriped shirt. He looks pulled together but casual at the same time. His sleeves are rolled to his elbow, and I notice again his wrists are wide and strong-looking. He’s looking at me but I avoid eye-contact.
I wish he wasn’t so handsome. I probably wouldn’t be so defensive if he were a little more average.
“So what’s got you so worked up?” he asks.
“I told you. I don’t need you feeling sorry for me. Maybe you have a lot of time on your hands or something, but I don’t want to be your pet project.”
He turns down the radio. “I am not taking pity on you. I don’t think there is anything to pity. You have a problem, you’re going to fix it, and you’re going to be fine. That goes for the cancer and the sexual hiatus. And I’m not doing this out of pure, unselfish goodness of my heart. On the contrary, this is partially, if not totally — self-serving on my part.”
“How so?”
He runs his hands through his hair. The few beats of hesitation confirm my suspicion that he’s lying.
“It’s pretty simple,” he says. “You see the way women look at me when we’re out. They’re throwing it at me, right? That never would have happened if I’d been there alone or with another guy. At least, not that easily. With you, I don’t seem like I’m out looking to get laid. I also don’t seem threatening. And seeing another woman with me triggers the competitive streak in other women who want male attention. It’s all very basic and primal. You’re a great wingman too — whether you know it or not.”
I sit back against the plush seat. “That’s what this is all about?”
“Yeah.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
He sighs. “You’re just going to have to trust me on that one. Look, I’m flattered that you think I’m so selfless. But you’re wrong. So now that we’ve established that I’m not feeling sorry for you, are we going out tonight, or what?”
Okay, so he’s not hanging out with me out of pity. Maybe he is getting something out of our…what? Friendship? But I just don’t know how much further down this road I can go.
“I appreciate you trying to show me a good time,” I say slowly. “And I do want to change some things in my life — especially before my surgery. But running around every night at bars probably isn’t the best way for me to make those changes.”
“You’re right,” he says.
“I am?” I hadn’t expected him to agree so readily. Is he happy to be free of his responsibility as my tour guide for The List?
“Yeah. It’s too much drinking. Plus, you should be eating healthy.”
“Well, I’m Italian. Pasta and red meat aren’t things I’ll give up easily.”
“Are you supposed to give that up?”
I shrug. “I’m reading so much stuff right now it seems like everything you put in your mouth can make you sick in one way or another. I’m trying to be conservative.”
“From what I hear, you’ve been a little too conservative about putting stuff in your mouth the past few years,” he says.
“You’re disgusting,” I say, fighting a smile.
“Maybe instead of giving stuff up you should just add healthier food. I’m a big believer in superfoods.”
“Super food?”
“Superfoods. Things that are dense in nutrients. I got into it because it boosts your mental output. Did you know you
r brain uses twenty-five percent of your body’s energy?”
“No.”
“Yeah. So that’s why I got into it. Productivity. But superfoods are cancer fighting.”
“I should eat better,” I admit.
“I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll show you how to cook healthier, if you promise not to quit on The List.”
“You can cook?”
“It’s probably the thing I do second best.”
“What’s the first?”
He smiles suggestively. I walked right into that one.
“When and where is this alleged superfood cooking going to happen?”
“Now. Tonight. My place.”
His apartment? I have to admit, I’m curious. Damn, he knows how to suck me right in. I’m willing to play the fool for one more night.
“Fine.”
“Oh no,” he says, smiling. I notice a dimple in his left cheek. “You need to say it’s a deal.”
“You drive a hard bargain. Fine. It’s a deal.”
Chapter 11
The Parc Rittenhouse, on the east side of Rittenhouse Square at South 18th Street, is a luxury condominium that feels like a hotel. The lobby is all marble and granite in black and ivory. In the elevator, he pushes the button for twenty, the top floor.
I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.
He opens the door to a pristine, chrome and glass apartment that is spotless and almost bare.
“Very homey. Lived in,” I joke.
“At least I invited you in,” he says. Ouch. Got me with that one.
The floor plan is open, almost loft-like. I have a view of the ultra modern kitchen, where Justin is already pulling ingredients from his silver Sub-Zero.
A massive flat screen takes up one wall facing the black couch. Speakers set high in the corners of the ceiling indicate any movie viewing would be a theater-like experience. The rest of the furniture is all sharp angles and bare surfaces, no knick-knacks to clue me in to favorite travel spots, not family photos. I’m disappointed not to find more obvious clues about him, until I notice a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf at the far end of the living room. I wander over to it, scanning the eclectic mix of hardcovers and paperbacks: Franzen. Perotta. Atwood. Bukowski. The spines are worn, if not broken in some cases. I don’t think the collection is for show. Justin is a reader.