Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  So far, we’re two for two with DoggieDate men. Two weirdos. Two showstoppers.

  And I have eighteen more to go.

  “My mama is deaaaadddd,” he cries.

  Marie’s eyes fill with tears. A few of her yoga students pop their heads up in response to Jordan’s cries.

  “I’m so sorry, Jordan.” She rubs his back. He’s genuinely mourning, and I feel for the guy. I do. I’m in my twenties and while my own mother can be an anal retentive, uptight pain in the butt, I love her and don’t know what I’d do without her. Jordan seems, to put it mildly, like a mama’s boy, and I can only imagine that losing your mom and business partner would be devastating.

  “Does this mean Montelcini Flowers isn’t doing weddings right now?” Marie asks softly.

  Aha.

  I roll my tongue inside my mouth and then bite it. If I don’t, I’ll say something I regret.

  Now I understand.

  And a lightbulb goes off.

  At one of the late-night tactical weapons meetings...er, wedding planning sessions, Marie mentioned that the best florist in town was booked three years out.

  Montelcini Flowers.

  Rescue yoga, indeed. Suddenly her gracious act of bad-date assistance becomes more evident for what it really is.

  “How can I do weddings when the bliss of Mama is gone? No one can make her red sauce for me. I had to learn how to do laundry! And make my own bed!” he wails. “Hospital corners are haaaarrrddd.”

  “That is so difficult,” Marie says, completely shining him on. Some part of her genuinely cares about the man’s pain. Hell, I sure do. But another part of her is clearly emboldened by the idea that she might be able to book the premier wedding florist in Boston. The society coup of this one would give her a Momzilla orgasm.

  Jordan leans into Marie’s hug, his face pressed against her bosom. He lets out a series of small, hitched sobs. “You smell a little like my mama.”

  And then he leans in and just cries.

  Muffin toddles off, sniffing in a crooked line in the bright sunshine, still within twenty feet of us. It’s probably the most freedom that poor little two pounds of flesh has ever had in its coddled little life.

  Like Jordan, right now.

  As Marie pats him gently on the back, I stand there, my mind occupied by the earlier hour at Anterdec. The kiss. The kisses. Andrew’s words cycle through me, his on-off switch so easy to flip, his obvious anger at my “date”—who is now burrowing into Marie’s arms in an alarming way—leaving me with more questions than answers.

  And then the silence (other than Jordan’s sobs) is pierced by a strange cry from the sky.

  A red-tailed hawk swoops down and in what feels like slow motion, descends to the grass, plucks little Muffin in its talons, and lifts up, wings pushing down with the effort of getting greater lift with its dinner in its hands.

  “Oh, my God!” I scream. Jordan and Marie look up. I’m pointing at the horrific scene as Muffin quakes in the hawk’s grasp, twelve feet above us, eyes bulging in terror.

  Or is that how she normally looks? It’s hard to tell the difference.

  “MUFFIN!” Jordan screeches, scrambling to his feet. “No, Muffin! Mama will be so mad if something happens to you!”

  “Do something!” Marie cries out, running after the bird, who is lurching up and down as it struggles to hang on to Muffin the Hawk Munchie.

  I grab a rock and throw it. I have the pitching arm of a four year old, so all I manage to do is hit a passing dad pushing a stroller as my anemic throw ends in a parabola of shame.

  “Hey!” the dad shouts. “Watch it. Babies here.”

  Great. I hit a dad with twins. The karma on that one is going to be massive.

  “Don’t hurt Muffin!” Jordan screams at me. “That rock could maim her.”

  Right. Because throwing a rock to make the hawk drop her is exactly like having her eaten alive by the bird.

  Jordan is definitely on my permanent list of people I will never, ever touch.

  Marie sprints over to a little boy who has a remote control in his hand. She says something to him and he hands it over. I look up.

  A tiny little silver toy helicopter makes a giant U-turn and dive bombs the hawk.

  “MUFFIN!” Jordan screams.

  In a split second, I race over to the ground under the hawk and Muffin. Someone has to catch the little dog, because at this point, the hawk’s a good twenty feet in the air. If he drops her, she’ll be a Muffin pancake.

  “BOOYAH!” Marie shouts as she manipulates the helicopter. The dad of the twins in the stroller jogs over to the little boy and says soothing things to him. They watch Marie attack the hawk with the toy helicopter.

  “Daddy, it’s my turn next, right?” the little boy asks. “I wanna hit the hawk. Twenty points!”

  Suddenly, the silver copter buzzes loud in my ears, and I hear Muffin whining. The hawk drops her as Marie goes in for one last try, and I aim, barely reaching my arms out in time for falling Muffin to hit my hands, my body stretched as far as it can go in a last-minute lunge that leaves me holding her in my palms, my chest and hips smacking into the solid sidewalk section with a belly-flop that knocks the wind out of me.

  My hands shake.

  Because Muffin’s in them, quaking away.

  “MUFFIN!” Jordan snatches her out of my palms as I try to breathe. I fail. My face is smashed into the rough concrete, the blooming pinprick of a bad scrape seeping in to my consciousness. I can’t breathe, though. It’s like a brick became my lungs. My legs feel like rubber behind me, and my belly is exposed, the lunge to catch the dog pulling my shirt out of my pants.

  I’m facedown, palms up, breathless, and about to die.

  Then the clapping begins. If I’m going to die because I saved a dog from becoming a Scooby snack, then there damn well better be applause.

  “That was amazing!” the dad with twins says as Marie gives him back the controller. The little boy looks up into the sky and frowns.

  “Where’s the bird? I wanna attack the bird! My turn! I’m Player 2!”

  I want to say help, but I can’t. I am lying here and it feels like I have a balloon inside me stopping me from breathing. My ribs spasm and my throat gags and then bam!

  I’m breathing. The feeling is painful and ragged and god-awfully rippling, like I have layers of skin sticking to each other inside wet lungs, but oxygen gets in.

  You don’t realize how much you appreciate the simple art of respiration until you can’t respire.

  “You used that helicopter so well!”

  “Mama! Mama was Muffin’s guardian angel,” Jordan cries out. “And you!” he shouts, pointing at me.

  I roll over and sit up. My knees have grass stains on them, my belly and face are scratched, and my hands are covered in what appears to be Muffin’s pee.

  I wipe them on the grass and unwrap my purse from my neck, fishing around for my wet wipes and antibacterial gel. You mystery shop enough men’s bathrooms, you carry those two items everywhere. Who knew I’d be using them to wipe a date’s animal pee off my hands?

  “What’s your name?” Jordan asks Marie.

  “Marie Jacoby.” She’s laughing, a sound of relief and unfettered joy.

  “Marie, you are my hero!”

  A new round of applause erupts.

  Now, wait a minute. It slowly dawns on me that they’re clapping for Marie. Not me. I’m the one who threw the rock. Who caught the dog. I look at Jordan, who snuggles Muffin and tightens his grip as he gives me a nasty glare.

  “You leave my Muffin alone!”

  Wha?

  “Excuse me?” I choke out.

  “First you threw a rock at her and almost killed her. Then you nearly missed catching her. Mama was holding her in the light the entire time, and sent Marie the angel to me.”

  I look around. Three or four people are videotaping the entire thing on their phones. A cop on a bicycle appears and stops.

  I can barely breat
he, and my cheekbone is wet. I can’t touch it, though, because eww. Dog pee.

  I stand and look around. Bathroom. As I walk down the slight slope to it, I hear Marie say in an excited voice:

  “Repay me? Oh, Jordan. My dear, sweet boy. You never have to repay me for doing a good deed and helping your mother’s precious Muffin. But...if you insist...are you free in July for a wedding at Farmington Country Club?”

  11

  How was your date? the text reads. It’s a number I don’t know.

  Hold on.

  Yes I do.

  It’s AJM.

  Uneventful, I type back, lying.

  YouTube says otherwise, he replies.

  Oh, no.

  I tap into my phone’s browser and search “hawk dog Boston” on YouTube.

  There I am. Nine different video versions.

  That was, um... is all I can type back. Words fail me.

  You divebomb like that on all your dates? he texts.

  Only when there’s something interesting to lunge at, I reply. I hit Send before I lose my nerve.

  That can be arranged.

  I stare at the words and blink. What is he doing?

  I let three minutes go by. He made me wait nearly two years. I can make the man wait a hundred and eighty seconds.

  He cracks. Hah.

  Nothing new to add to your personal database? No entries?

  I snort.

  Not even a new row, I write back.

  Why am I assuring him? Why is he texting me? What game is he playing? The first two times he kissed me I never heard from him again. For nearly two years I had to play a stupid game of Let’s Pretend, in which I went to the occasional client meeting where he was present and avoided eye contact.

  Now we’re maid of honor and best man in Shannon and Declan’s wedding and I know his big secret and...what? What’s the significance here?

  How about we extend one?

  I frown. One what?

  A row.

  Which one?

  Mine. Dinner tonight. I’ll pick you up.

  Andrew just changed the game.

  I am at home after texting Greg about the incident, which was technically a work-related event. You can scare Greg with two simple sentences:

  I was hurt at work.

  and

  I am experiencing my monthly.

  Either one is quite effective.

  He gave me permission to come home and clean myself up, then just manage mystery-shopper updates from home. In addition to the new DoggieDate account, I am still handling all my ongoing mystery shop programs, which currently include assisted living evaluations, a chain of coffee houses and their new gluten-free pastries, legal insurance evaluations, hairdresser shops, and my personal favorite: tobacco compliance shops for liquor stores.

  Try finding a bunch of twentysomethings who look like fifteen year olds but act like mature adults. Good luck with that.

  I stare at Andrew’s last text. Our living room has an enormous mirror over the fireplace, and as a kid I used it to study myself. As I’ve aged, I look less often. Right now, though, I stand in front of it and really take a look at myself. Mom’s in her office, on a conference call for her job. I can hear intermittent typing as she takes notes.

  Maybe I should be taking notes of a different kind.

  My cheekbone is raw red, the nasty abrasion filling in with a few spots that will scab, but it mostly looks like a rug burn. My brown hair is wet and I’m wearing no makeup. I slipped into my comfortable jammies after my shower. Victoria’s Secret’s got nothing on flannel ducks.

  It’s like he’s in the room with me, staring back from the mirror. Not in some creepy supernatural way, but like I’m looking at myself through the eyes of Andrew McCormick, as imagined by me.

  Which doesn’t make sense, but falling for someone never does.

  I sigh. My wide eyes look back at me with an openness, a pleading, a question. Are you going to leap? Are you prepared to go splat, like Muffin would have if you hadn’t been there to catch her? Is Andrew the hawk and I’m the prey?

  What will he do with me when he catches me?

  Devour me or drop me back to earth?

  Only one way to find out.

  I pick up my phone and text him back.

  I’m applying makeup for my nine o’clock date with Andrew when my phone rings. I’ve gotten accustomed to texting after being mercilessly teased by Shannon about my actual telephone-calling habits, and the sound of my ringtone is jarring.

  It’s Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend,” so it must be—

  “You’re a YouTube sensation,” Shannon declares as I put her on speakerphone.

  “I’m a what?”

  “Hashtags and all!” she crows. “Finally, I’m not the only one!”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, but I feel my voice fade as it dawns on me. All those people recording on their phones. “Oh, no. This is about Muffin, isn’t it?”

  “Your hashtag is #doghater.”

  “I have a hashtag? What?”

  “Welcome to the club. At least yours doesn’t involve the word poop.”

  “Dog what? Did you say #doghater? How can I be a dog hater? I saved the dog!”

  “That’s not what I saw. Mom saved the dog. You just threw rocks at it.”

  “WHAT?” I’m applying foundation so thick it could be memory foam to cover up the abrasion on my cheek from dive-bombing to catch Muffin. “I injured myself rescuing that dog!”

  “The videos show otherwise. They show you throwing rocks at the hawk, the creepy little man screaming for someone to help, my mom grabbing the little kid’s helicopter remote control, and then Mom saves the day. Videos end with the man cradling the dog.”

  “I’ve been cut out of my own rescue video! That’s so unfair.”

  “Why were you even out there? Who was that guy? Mom says you were on a date with him. He’s sooo not your type. I’m guessing this is part of that dog dating site?”

  “Who, him?” I say breezily. “Oh, just some guy I met online.”

  “You wouldn’t date a guy like that with a ten-foot pole and a can of troll spray in your hand, Amanda.”

  “Hey! That’s not nice. Jordan’s a sweet man.”

  “I heard. Turns out he’s the florist Mom’s been whining about for the past six months. I think Mom only saved that dog so she could get him for my wedding.”

  I finish with the foundation and look at myself.

  Tears fill my eyes.

  “Hashtag doghater? #Doghater? Who started that?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Jessica Coffin?”

  “Your Twitter best friend,” Shannon says with a grunt.

  “She’s passé. Like Ann Coulter. So self-absorbed she still thinks she’s important.”

  “She still has lots of followers. People like snark. And poop, apparently.”

  “But you’re not bitter.”

  She snorts and sounds just enough like Muffin to scare me.

  “Can you come over? I need help,” I beg.

  “Cheetos-and-marshmallows kind of help?”

  “Getting-ready-for-a-date kind of help.”

  “New guy? What’s his name? Shrek?”

  “Andrew.”

  “Andrew Andrew?”

  “Yep.”

  “He asked you out on a date?” Shannon’s obvious incredulity makes me laugh and cry at the same time.

  “Yes.”

  “A real date?”

  “He asked me out for dinner.”

  “Not just business?”

  “No.”

  “And not to talk about my wedding?”

  Oh.

  Hmm.

  Hadn’t thought about that.

  Spritzy comes into the room and licks my ankle. It stings. I look down. Another abrasion. Great. I bend down and give him loads of attention and even a kiss on the top of his head. Would a dog hater do that?

  “I’ll be there in ten minut
es.”

  “How can you get here in ten minutes?”

  “I was already on my way.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Declan told me Andrew told him he’d asked you out.”

  “You pretended you didn’t know?” I squeak. “Did he include a note with a checkbox that says Do You Like Me: Yes or No?”

  She laughs. I laugh. I sniffle. I feel like Jordan suddenly.

  “I’m almost there and I do have Cheetos and marshmallows.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank Declan.”

  “Why?”

  “He made me bring them. Said they’re disgusting and doesn’t want them cluttering the kitchen.”

  “Tell him he doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.”

  12

  When Shannon arrives, I’m surprised to see her actually driving. At the wheel of a Tesla.

  She emerges with a smile, carrying a plastic grocery bag.

  I hug her a little tighter than usual.

  “Nice wheels.”

  “Not mine. Declan’s new toy.”

  “They’ll be half yours, soon.”

  She punches me and rolls her eyes as we walk into the house.

  “Shannon!” Mom emerges from her home office, a heating pad wrapped around her neck and shoulders. As she hugs Shannon, it starts to slide to the ground. I bend and grab it, my movement effortless and automatic. Mom once watched me do that and explained how envious she was, knowing I was able to make my limbs move, my joints pivot and bend at will to accomplish a needed task, and to do so without pain.

  I’ve never forgotten that moment.

  “What are you doing here?” Mom asks, smiling at my friend. “And please excuse the mess!”

  I look around the living room. There is a magazine on the coffee table. Otherwise, the house is spotless. Perfectly, utterly, obsessively spotless. Mom moves like a cleaning ninja to the coffee table and casually slips the magazine into the holder next to the couch.

  As she lifts up from her slight crouch, her eyelids flutter, half-closed, her breathing hitched.

  Pain.

  What seems so easy for some people is an entire universe of complexity for others.

  “Hi, Pam. I’m here to deliver Cheetos and marshmallows, and to help rescue Amanda from herself.”