Down with Love

by Kate Meader

  Brava, Mitzi, brava.

  The canine menace has already shat on a deposition and peed on a motion. I try not to take it as a personal affront to the quality of my work.

  It’s Saturday morning, and I’m in a stare-down for the ages. The dog wins because I don’t have time for this BS.

  “All right, you little prick, let’s go get some air.”

  I head down to the lobby of my building and get a surprise: Sully leaning on the doorman’s podium, chatting with Benji. Empathetic laughter rings through the hallowed halls of the Gloucester.

  “Hey, Sully.” I approach them both, curious. “Everything okay?”

  “Max!” Sully reaches for the hand I’m currently using to hold Cujo, which surprises me enough to release him. Not that he can get far but he immediately makes a lunge for Mrs. Gawlik, who’s just come in through the front door that Benji neglected to open while he was otherwise occupied.

  I see major trouble on my hands, but before Cujo can cause any damage, he’s scooped up by Sully. Belatedly, Benji leaps into action to take Mrs. G’s packages, and we all breathe a sigh of relief because that could have turned out much worse.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” I take a step to remove the dog from Sully’s arms, but he seems to have the situation in hand.

  “Heard I owe you big-time for my change in diet.” He gives a rogue’s grin I can’t help but return. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.”

  I could ask him how he knows where I live but we all have our ways. “I’m taking this little fucker for a walk. Want to tag along?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  We wave our goodbyes at Benji, who has his hands full with Mrs. G’s scolding, and head out to the May sunshine. Sully places my pup on the ground with a lot more consideration than the little mofo deserves and doesn’t seem too inclined to return the lead to me.

  “What do we call him?”

  “Cujo.”

  “Good name. Want to head to the park, fella?”

  Cujo gives no indication one way or the other, but then he doesn’t really have a choice. I’m the boss here. We head to Lincoln Park, just a cockapoo’s throw away from home.

  “So, yeah, Max,” Sully says after a minute of getting the dog settled into a walking rhythm, “I’m mighty appreciative of that meal thing. The soy-glazed chicken is a culinary miracle.”

  “One of my favorites, too.”

  “Or at least it would be if Donna could follow directions.”

  I pause, judging the situation, and decide that it would be best served with honesty. “You’re never too old to learn how to follow directions yourself, Sully. Lots of guys cook these days. And I imagine you have more time on your hands since your retirement.”

  “I’m pretty busy,” he mutters, clearly not enjoying my lack of solidarity. But I’m not some old-school guy who thinks women have their place. Hell, I’m downright encouraging of the women in my life being all that they can be. Particularly one woman whose husky orders in my ear have pretty much reframed everything I expected from a sexual relationship.

  Just thinking of how Charlie fell apart on my office desk a couple of days ago gets me a touch too heated for comfort, especially in the presence of the woman’s father. But Christ, I loved seeing her take on that role. Here’s a tip for all you ladies out there: Guys like their sexual partners vocal and specific.

  I switch back to the present. “When my dad had pneumonia last year, he tried overdoing it. He needed to feel in charge, especially with my mom fussing around him all the time.”

  Sully snorts, drawing a curious look from Cujo. “Know what that’s like.”

  “He had to retire early, too, and it did not sit well.”

  “All right, Max, no need to beat around the bush.”

  Fair enough. “So you want to feel more in charge of your health and your life, then cook your own dinner. Give your wife a goddamn break, and maybe make her some soy-glazed chicken.”

  Sully looks like I suggested he eat the cute little turd Cujo just gifted the world. “I start cooking and it upsets the order of things.”

  “The order has been upset since the ladies got the vote, Sully, and our lives are better for it. Just accept it. Your lot will be much more peaceful.”

  “She and Charlie are ganging up on me.” He stops as Cujo wanders toward a tree for a quick pee. “You seen much of my Charlie these days?”

  “Not really,” I reply because it’s true. I’m trying to give her space.

  “Her last boyfriend was a prick.”

  I should be saying “I’m not her boyfriend” but my curiosity rages. “Oh, yeah?”

  “She never told me why they broke up, but I figure he thought she wasn’t good enough for him. He was some fancy-pants real estate guy. Maybe you know him. Jeremy Craven.”

  I know of him. Jeremy Craven is a blue blood with pots of money and political aspirations. He’s always struck me as having a broom rammed up his ass, not Charlie’s style at all. I try to imagine Craven getting sent to Cubs jail for defending his girl, and the vision refuses to form.

  I bend down to bag up Cujo’s poop because apparently the new world order requires humans become subservient to their canine masters. Imagining smearing it all over one of Craven’s suits makes the task a little less terrible.

  I jog to the trashcan and deposit the deposit. Heading back, I say, “I think I need to get something straight here. Charlie’s not interested in me.”

  “You piss her off,” Sully states matter-of-factly.

  “I do.”

  “Work in a job she doesn’t think too highly of.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Are a bit of a player.”

  “No bit about it.” The admission feels off, like ash on my tongue.

  The man rubs his unshaven jaw and holds my gaze. “She needs a challenge, someone who understands how passionate she is about things. When she first came to us, she had a lot of emotion inside her and no way to channel it right. To be honest, she was hell to be around, but she had good reasons—” He stops, his eyes clouding with memory. “We got through it together, as a family. I just want someone to see all my beautiful daughter has to offer.”

  My heart squeezes at his profession of love.

  The problem is that I see everything Charlie Love is about, but she’s put me in a box, only to be opened when she has an itch to scratch. “You missed your calling, Sully. You should be a matchmaker in your retirement.”

  The man smiles, knowing he won’t get any further with me.

  “Donna wants me to exercise. Go for walks.”

  “Like what you’re doing now?”

  He shrugs. “You’re saying I should get a dog? Donna won’t stand for that.”

  Now it’s my turn to smile. “Sully, I have the answer to all your problems.”

  Charlie

  “Maybe you should go on that show.”

  I narrow my eyes, first at Donna, then at the TV screen which is currently showing one of the more whorish scenes from The Bachelor: the man himself in a hot tub with three of the contestants looking for fame, fortune, and…love?

  The whole thing is ridiculous. Needless to say, I’m a huge fan.

  I shouldn’t enjoy it so much because it doesn’t exactly paint relationships and weddings in the best light. No marriage that starts off on this shaky footing could possibly go the distance. But Donna and I have been watching it from the beginning, unafraid to pronounce wine-assisted judgment. This is the first time she’s suggested I become a contestant, however.

  “With my mouth, you know I’d be voted off after the first week.”

  Donna hoists an eyebrow. “You need to learn about compromise, Charlie. You’re never going to be happy if you can’t
learn how to meet a man in the middle.”

  “I’m trying to be less…abrasive.” I know I can be opinionated and take-charge, qualities that are off-putting to most men. Of course, I’d like to have a special someone, but how much of my personality must I suppress to get there? Doing the dating dance is exhausting. Making ourselves vulnerable is the hardest thing we can do. Letting another person bear witness to the ugliness inside takes true courage.

  Maybe I’m not brave enough to truly let go with another person.

  You let go with Max, though. He challenged me to be myself, to surrender to my raw need. With him, I feel liberated, and holy shit, that scares the hell out of me. If only he was a better bet for the long haul…and there I go confusing a hot fling for the real thing.

  He hasn’t called or texted since my visit to his office four days ago.

  I’m furious that I’ve noticed.

  “So how are things here?” I ask, eager to change the subject.

  “Your father cooked dinner last night.”

  I pick up the remote and pause right on a still of Brandy, one of the contestants who can cry on demand, having an “accidental” nip slip. “Did you film it?”

  “I thought about it, but he was kind of self-conscious.” Donna giggles. “He’s an even worse cook than I am! The instructions are on those cards they send, and he still burned the quesadillas.”

  “But at least he’s trying,” I say with a smile. Tonight, Sully is at a poker game at Jimmy Finster’s. All this “getting out of the house” business bothers me.

  “I suppose.” Unease crosses her face. “He’s not been the same since the heart attack. It’s made him a…faded version of himself.”

  I’ve noticed it, too, and I’ve also seen the pressure it’s placed on their marriage. On Donna herself. I take her hand. “And how are you doing? This has been tough on you, too.”

  “Oh, I’m fine.” She squeezes my hand, her eyes bright with threatened tears. “He’s not the easiest man to live with, but he has passion. Usually.”

  “Woman, you are a saint. I know I didn’t make it easy and I don’t say it enough.”

  “You’re so like him. I think that’s why you two made that connection so quickly.”

  She’s right. Sully and I bonded freaky-fast once I learned to let go of the anger and trust the adults who were heaven-sent to heal me. My bond with Donna is quieter, but no less strong.

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” I assure her. “There’s some weirdo out there who can handle me. I’m sure of it.”

  “Like Max.”

  “No, not like Max.”

  “He bought us dinners, Charlie.”

  “Yeah, that you have to cook yourself. If he was really interested, he would have sent a chef.”

  She remains silently judgmental as only a mother can, so I jump into the gap.

  “Donna, Max is…” I can’t say with certainty what he is. There’s a shape-shifter quality to him, and every time I think I have him figured out, he takes on another form.

  “Are you seeing him?”

  “Not officially.”

  Her eyes widen. “Charlotte Michaela Love, are you telling me you’re using that nice boy…for sex?” Her horror fills the room to such an extent I almost feel sorry for that nice boy—and acutely embarrassed for myself.

  “Uh, we’re not having this conversation.”

  “If I was twenty years younger…”

  “We’re definitely not having this conversation!”

  “I’ll get the Breyers mint chocolate chip.” She’s off to the kitchen before I can tell her ice cream, yes, heart-to-hearts about my sex life, a big fat no. Not that we don’t share, but as a kid, I was more likely to confide in Sully about my boy troubles.

  My phone chimes, and I grab it quickly. Only Penny. And then I feel terrible that I’m disappointed because my friend texted instead of my…what? My booty call?

  Penny: 36. Divorced. No kids. Stockbroker. OWNS A BOAT!

  The accompanying pic looks like an overgrown frat boy, a little too overgrown if that paunch is any indication. And that sends my thoughts to Max’s abs, which are…Focus.

  Me: And?

  Penny: Which part of “owns a boat” do you not understand?

  Me: Sounds like a workaholic whose wife canned him because he spends too much time drinking beer on the lake.

  Penny: I give up.

  I can’t blame her. Apparently my mind refuses to reckon with any other men because it’s filled with one man. The worst man.

  He bought us dinners, Charlie. It’s a little thing that’s not a little thing. In his office, he gave me free rein to be myself. My wanton, bossy, absurdly undatable self.

  I open up a new message and shoot it off before Donna returns and I can second-guess myself.

  Me: Hey

  Max: Hey yourself.

  (Within five seconds, I might add. I’m not giddy. You’re giddy!)

  Me: I’m not home right now but maybe we could get together later

  Me: I’m not home right now but I was thinking of you

  Me: I’m not home right now but…

  Me: What’s up?

  Max: Oh, the usual. Nipple watch on The Bachelor.

  I laugh like an idiot and look around the room guiltily as warmth floods my chest. He watches junk TV yet somehow manages to rise in my estimation every time I talk to him.

  Me: Nipple watch here as well. Monday night ritual with Donna and wine and ice cream.

  Max: Hmm. I think we’ll need to break this episode down later. In person.

  I squee shamelessly, then to counter it, I mull over my next text with the appropriate gravitas.

  Me: Give me 20

  Me: Give me 30

  Me: Come over an hour after the show ends.

  Max: I’ll be there in half an hour, so don’t make me wait, you saucy tease.

  With perfect timing, Donna reappears carrying two bowls of ice cream covered in hot fudge. She always goes the extra mile on dessert, and we spend a couple of minutes nom-nomming while we catch up with the paused show. When it hits the commercial, she turns to me.

  “He was here for you, Charlie.”

  “Who?”

  “Max. At the poker game.”

  I snort, a little freaked out by her prescience. “He’s a Cubs fan, that’s all.”

  “He’s a Charlie fan,” Donna says with a sly smile. “When he stopped by on Thursday—”

  “What? He came back?”

  “Of course he came back. We watched The Voice. He thinks Adam Levine is too full of himself, but I like him.”

  “Max?”

  “Adam Levine. And Max.” Donna is a topic-hopping butterfly, and it takes all my powers of focus to keep up with her. But I understand this: Max Henderson, the guy whose body I plan to use and abuse until it’s a dried-out husk, is spending more time with my parents than any guy I’ve ever dated.

  Weird, but also kind of lovely.

  Chapter 16

  “Marriages come and go, but divorces are forever.”

  —Nora Ephron

  Charlie

  Remember that scene in Bridesmaids where Annie goes to her friend’s bridal shower, organized by the bride’s future sister-in-law, and she shows up in a beater car to a mansion?

  I am currently living this.

  Usually I don’t attend my clients’ bridal showers as our relationship is all business. But Gina is different. The girl is feeling a little lost and more than a touch overwhelmed with everything that’s happening to her. I know she doesn’t have a ton of friends in Chicago, so I helped put together a guest list, even inviting my own bestie—Penny, because Nathan insisted it was not part of his job
description—and the rest of the book club to pad the numbers. Also expected are colleagues from the school where she works and whomever else Mrs. Henderson decided should grace the threshold of her home.

  Yep. The shower is being held at Casa Henderson where Max and James spent their formative years riding ponies, playing croquet, and shooting the servants for shits ’n’ giggles. You know, the traditional upbringing of the fabulously wealthy.

  “Wow, this is nice,” Penny says, craning her neck to take in the view. Overlooking the lake in Kenilworth on Chicago’s North Shore, the house is indeed beautiful and definitely in the millions range, just not quite as ostentatious as I’d expect for the Henderson meat money.

  “Pity Max won’t be here,” Penny twitters. “I’m dying to see you two going at it hammer and tongs. Maybe you should bring him around for dinner.”

  “We’re not dating, Pen.”

  I didn’t even have to fess up about my one time with Max that’s now turned into at least ten times in two weeks. Each morning after, Nathan has gleefully called Penny to tell her I’m in a good, sometimes a great mood. I should never have hired him, but the dimples and the bridezillas.

  I pull my Honda Civic up to the entrance, get out, and hand my keys to the valet. Yep, they have a freakin’—shut up. It’s just efficient car management.

  The front door is already open, so we step inside a foyer beautifully decorated in the couple’s wedding theme colors of lilac and silver. I wave to Jessica and Gaby from book club, both standing at a door to where I expect the festivities are happening. Also in my sight line are three well-dressed guys. Definitely not catering staff.

  A woman with dark hair, expertly streaked with gray, and smiling blue eyes greets us.

  “Hello! Welcome! I’m Susanne Henderson, mother of the groom!” She pumps my hand, and I’m surprised to hear her British accent. “You must be Charlie. I recognize you from the photo on the Perfect Day website, and you are just as gorgeous in person. My son told me how helpful you’ve been.” She finally takes a breath and gazes at me expectantly.