“He’s one of the Balthazar bouncers. And, that was me being nice. Trust me, if you’d ever met him you’d find that descriptor pales in comparison to his actual behavior.”
“Okay, but there’s also a guy listed as Gym Steve .” She scrolls, looking vastly amused. “Plus, there’s Hot Phillip and Regular Phillip. Oh, and Lifeguard Boy . Care to explain those?”
“Nope.”
Her eyebrows arch. “There’s also one number listed as Coachella Sex — pretty sure that’s self-explanatory.”
“Don’t forget Taco Bell Pete ,” Wyatt chimes in. “That’s my personal favorite.”
“You guys are assholes.”
“Well, not to be outdone, I changed my name to Sex Pants ,” Harper informs me merrily.
“Great. That won’t be weird or anything, when you call me and strangers see SEX PANTS pop up on my screen.” I glance at Wyatt. “I suppose you’re in there, too?”
His lips twitch. “Wyatt Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore Hastings , at your service.”
“Nerd.” I shake my head, laughing. “You guys suck.”
“We also programmed in Grayson’s number as Jake From State Farm .”
“Great.” I sigh. “Is the reorganization of my contact list all you did?”
I know Harper well. I doubt, given free reign with my phone, she restricted herself to harmless name changes.
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “Maybe not.”
“Hand it over.”
She sighs and extends it toward me. “Fine. But just… keep an open mind.”
I take my phone back with hesitant fingers and narrowed eyes. “Do I want to know what you’ve done?”
“Probably not.” She laughs.
Filled with trepidation, I glance at my screen. It doesn’t take much sleuthing to discover what she’s been up to — there’s a freshly installed application in the middle of my home screen.
“What the hell is SingleMingle and why do I have a profile?” I ask ominously. Toggling open the app, I see several pictures of me alongside a bio I would never write in a million years.
Fun-loving, upbeat girl seeking lifelong snuggle buddy who loves to laugh!
Sense of humor is a must. Bonus points for cooking skills and six pack abs.
There’s an eggplant emoji at the end, for god’s sake.
I’m not sure whether I’m more outraged by her description of me as upbeat or the insinuation the I’m looking for a snuggle buddy , whatever the hell that might be.
“Harper,” I growl. “What am I looking at?”
“Your new profile! Did you know, this plane is equipped with high speed internet? During your little nap, I caught up on the past two episodes of Vampire High and then had a little free time, so I decided to use my powers for good and make you a profile.” She sounds completely unapologetic. “You already have twenty-three matches! In an hour! I think that’s a record.”
“This isn’t happening,” I mutter darkly. “There’s no way you did this.”
“Oh, but I did. And you should be thanking me! Think of how many men you’ll have lined up to date you by the time we get home.”
“Thank you? For what — putting me up for auction on the Los Angeles meat market?”
I hear a muffled laugh from Wyatt — when my glare slides in his direction, he tries to disguise his amusement with a fit of coughing, swiftly looking down to hide his smile.
“So, Hastings, you think this is funny, do you?”
“Don’t blame me.” His blue eyes are twinkling with humor when they lift to meet mine. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“You could’ve stopped her.”
“In his defense,” Harper interjects. “I was pretty determined.”
I toss my phone on the cushion beside me. “Well, I’ll never use the damn thing.”
“That’s all right.” Harper shrugs. “I know your username and password. I’ll just set up dates on your behalf and ambush you when you least expect it.” A crazy glint creeps into her eyes. “You think you’re meeting me for sushi? SURPRISE ! It’s actually Stanley. You think you’re having drinks with me at the new cocktail bar downtown? NOPE ! It’s Ned waiting there instead.”
I look at her in horror. “And you call yourself my friend.”
“It’s for your own good!” she insists. “You need to put yourself out there. Meet people. Make conversation. Make love .”
Grayson sits up from a sound sleep, abruptly awake. “Who’s making love?”
“Figures, that wakes him up,” I mutter, shaking my head. “No one is making love. No one is doing anything .” I glare at Harper. “I’m not going to meet my soulmate on a swiping app.”
She glares back at me. “You never know.”
“Soulmate?” Grayson scoffs sleepily. “Who the hell wants a soulmate?”
“Everyone!” Harper says, shocked.
There’s a condescending edge to Grayson’s smile. “Frankly, the idea of monogamy and marriage is so outdated. Loving someone forever was all well and good when the average life expectancy was thirty. Now, people live to well over a hundred. That means, hypothetically, if you meet the so-called love of your life tomorrow, you’ll spend over eighty years with them. That is a long time to spend fucking the same person. I don’t care how inventive you get between the sheets — eventually, things get stale. The spark fades. The shine wears off. And you’re left with an iron-clad commitment to someone you feel virtually nothing for anymore, besides resignation and resentment for constraining your erections to a twice-a-month schedule, with the occasional birthday blowjob thrown in for good behavior.” He shakes his head. “No thank you.”
Harper sniffs indignantly, staring at Grayson like he’s just informed her Santa Claus doesn’t actually deliver presents to every child on Christmas Eve. “That’s the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It may not be romantic, sweetheart, but it’s true.” Grayson rubs his bloodshot eyes. “People aren’t meant to be together forever. And marriage just guarantees you’re stuck with one woman for the rest of your damn life, trying to make her happy while convincing yourself that you wouldn’t rather be banging other, younger, probably hotter women.”
“That’s awful!” Harper looks like she’s about to burst into tears.
“Maybe it is.” Grayson shrugs. “But it’s also honest.”
“And you’re telling me all men think this way?” she asks, bottom lip trembling.
“Yep, pretty much,” he says, stretching and pushing to his feet. “Damn, I’m starving. Are there any cookies left?”
He walks to the back of the plane in search of sustenance, leaving the three of us in frozen silence. I wish I could say something to comfort Harper but, the sad truth is, I think Grayson is probably right, despite his indelicate phrasing.
Maybe humans simply aren’t meant to love each other forever.
People don’t like to talk about that possibility, because it makes them feel lost. Restless. Reckless. After all, if we cannot make marriage work, if we cannot find someone to create meaning in the chaos, to laugh with us as the rest of the world burns, to shelter us from the existential terror of adulthood and responsibility… what is the point of living at all?
If there is no one there to hold our hands as we grow old and wrinkled and useless in the eyes of youthful society… if there is no one to ward off the encroaching darkness as we near our expiration dates… if there is no one to hold vigil, brittle-boned and weary, as we meet our makers… What exactly is the purpose of this harrowing, horrible, heart-wrenching existence?
Are we no more than animals, driven by the basest biological impulses to procreate and populate this pale blue planet, in a universe so large our lives are no more than motes of dust in the unfathomable expanse of time?
I suppose Grayson could’ve been more tactful with his words, but I’d take truth over tact any day. In my experience, tiptoeing around something unpleasant doesn’t make it any more palatable when the ti
me comes to swallow it down. Better a man who is upfront about his desires from the start than one who reveals his true nature after vows are exchanged and contracts signed.
I have met these men — these closeted misogynists, bolstered by tradition and entitlement. I have watched my mother marry three of them, unhappily and unsuccessfully. I have watched my friends swoon for them, and say yes to their proposals, and start lives with them, only to find themselves divorced and disenchanted at the ripe age of twenty-six.
These are the men who talk about couples engaged in equitable relationships with unease lurking in their voices, just below that surface of bravado they brandish around like a sword to stave off their own insecurities.
These are the men who say things like "he's so whipped" and "she wears the pants" to cover their deep discomfort at the prospect of a partnership where both people are mature adults who make decisions together, who engage in co-dependence rather than feminine submission.
These are the men who expect the casserole on the table by six o'clock when they walk in the door, the quick peck on the cheek from an apron-wearing wife and a prompt, "How was your day, honey?" before falling into an arm chair in front of a television set.
These are the men who think making love is exactly three and a half minutes of pumping away in missionary position before rolling over, farting, and falling asleep as their wives crack open romance novels and dream of dashing pirates and lustful lairds.
This version of marriage — a throwback to the Donna Reed days of domestic subservience and strict gender roles — has long served as a justification for my commitment issues. I could never bend myself to fit such a marriage or such a man, no matter my love for him. I have no such flexibility of character, no ability to compromise my convictions for the sake of someone else, even if I loved him more than my next breath. I would break at the first attempt to shape myself into something more palatable for my husband’s peace of mind.
And yet… it seems, some days, that I am alone in this thinking. That as I grow older, I watch more and more women diluting themselves from reckless wild-child to responsible wife-material. Even Harper, who believes in true love and soulmates and long-lasting passion, has settled for a man like Greg, who she knows will never make her happy, because she would rather be with him than be alone.
I swing wildly between blind conviction that I am right to rage against the utter banality to which those around me seem to resign themselves, and the unsettling fear that it is not them, those who have settled , who are so banal and boring.
Perhaps, instead, it is me who is broken.
Maybe that small, invisible slice of my DNA programmed for marital bliss and total, wholesome satisfaction at all life has to offer is simply absent from my biochemical matter.
I sit in crowded coffee shops and watch couples on first dates holding hands and staring lovingly into each other’s eyes and feel utterly empty. Untouched by their cooing coexistence.
Harper says that I need to date, to put myself out there, because being alone is unhealthy… It would be easy to follow her advice — to swipe on SingleMingle until I find a nice boy with a white smile and a strong head of hair and settle down with him so the weight of the world is only slightly less crushing.
But I refuse to immerse myself in a relationship that is not right for me, simply so I have someone to go to the movies with on a lonely Wednesday night. Given the choice, I’d rather be a lonely wolf than a mindless sheep, stuck in a mediocre partnership.
So, as Harper huffs and sniffs at Grayson’s stark honesty, I find a sordid sort of solace in his remarks. It’s almost validating, to hear my worst fears about commitment voiced by someone else for a change.
“I can’t believe he’s so cynical.” She shakes her head. “You’d never know it, watching his movies. He plays the romantic lead so sincerely…”
“He’s an actor,” I say dryly. “It’s his job to convince you he’s sincere.”
“Still. I can’t believe he really feels that way — that marriage is outdated, that all men are resentful of being tied down to one woman forever. It’s terrible.”
I shrug. “No more terrible than being trapped in a loveless marriage, I’d imagine.”
Wyatt, who’s been totally quiet up till this point, shifts restlessly in his seat. There’s an amused twist to his mouth, but his eyes are serious when they meet mine.
“You’re suspiciously silent, Hastings.”
He laughs, flashing white teeth. “I was taught if you don’t have anything nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all.”
“Oh, now I’m intrigued.” I narrow my eyes. “Come on. Out with it.”
He leans forward, eyes on mine, elbows on his knees. A strand of bronze hair falls into his face — I have the abrupt, alarming urge to cross over to him and push it back into place.
“Dunn made a valid point,” he concedes. “We are living longer than ever. I’m in my mid-thirties; if I get married now and manage to keep kicking till I’m a hundred, that’s still nearly three-quarters of a century to spend with a single partner.”
“And you don’t think you’d get tired of being with one woman, for all that time?” I ask, goading him. “You don’t think, after all those years, you’d fall out of love or lust or whatever it is that makes people commit to each other forever?”
“It is a long time, I’ll grant you that.” His blue eyes hold mine steadily. “But even if I marry one woman, I won’t be spending my life with just one woman.”
Harper gasps.
“So you’re saying you’d cheat?” My voice goes up an octave. “You condone cheating, but you’re giving Grayson crap for his opinions?”
“I didn’t say I’d cheat. You didn’t let me finish.” Wyatt’s lips flatten into a serious line. His voice goes low, laced with passion. “Marrying one woman doesn’t mean spending your life with one woman, because the funny girl you fall in love with on a first date at twenty-eight eventually becomes the fascinating creature you propose to at thirty, then evolves into the stunning bride you wait for at the end of an aisle at thirty-two, and finally grows into the astounding mother to your children at thirty-four. By forty, she has blossomed into the businesswoman, the force to be reckoned with. By the time you’re fifty or sixty or seventy or a hundred, she’s been everything — your wife, your lover, your friend, your companion, your sous-chef, your travel partner, your life coach, your confidant, your cheerleader, your critic, your most stalwart advisor. She grows with you. She changes with you. She is always stable, but never stagnant. She is not one woman. She is a thousand versions of herself, a multitude of layers, an infinite ocean whose depths you plumb over a lifetime, whose many treasures and intricacies, quirks and idiosyncrasies you need an entire marriage to explore.” His voice softens. “A man should be so lucky to spend his life stuck with one woman such as that.”
He sits back, letting his words fade into silence, leaving me lost for words. Reeling. Inexplicably, on the verge of tears.
I blink rapidly, trying to compose my splintered thoughts into something resembling indifference, something pithy and witty and unaffected, but I can’t think of a single damn thing to say. I can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t do anything but stare into Wyatt’s eyes and wonder, vaguely, if all my carefully constructed beliefs about marriage and commitment are total fucking bullshit.
“Oh my god ,” Harper wails, hiccupping as tears stream from her eyes uncontrollably. “That’s the m-m-most romantic t-t-th-thing I’ve ever h-h-heard.”
Wyatt’s eyebrows lift.
“I just k-k-knew it!” She’s so emotional, she’s barely able to get the words out. “I k-k-knew there were s-s-st-still some good men l-l-left out there.”
Wyatt silently passes her a tissue.
“T-t-thank you, Wyatt.”
He stares at her in alarm. “I didn’t mean to make you upset—”
“Oh, I’m not. Ignore me.” She blows her nose loudly and excuses herself to use the bathro
om. Or weep in private.
When it’s just the two of us, I let my eyes drift to find Wyatt’s.
“I think you broke her.”
“I’m sure she’ll recover.”
“You really believe all that stuff?” I ask, heart thumping. “That love can last forever? That marriage isn’t always doomed to fail, despite all the statistics?”
He doesn’t hesitate even a beat. “Hell yeah, I believe it.”
“So why aren’t you married?”
“I’m waiting for the right girl.”
“What if she never comes along?”
“She will.”
“You seem awfully certain of that.”
“I am.”
“You could be waiting a long time.”
He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter how long I have to wait. Because I’m waiting for my wife. And, however long it takes her to find me, I know she’ll be worth every second.”
My eyes are prickling suspiciously again, so I turn and look out the window to distract myself from his too-blue eyes and too-sincere words. Wyatt is so genuine, so pure, so good , it makes me feel dirty and broken just being in his presence. Like I’ll somehow poison his light with my darkness, taint his unfailing optimism with my deep cynicism.
“I think we’re descending,” I murmur, watching the jet’s wings slice through the clouds. A few seconds later, the captain’s voice comes over the speakers, asking everyone to strap into their seats for landing. I’m relieved when Harper returns red-eyed from the bathroom and Grayson settles back on the couch beside me, a cookie still clutched in one hand, because being alone with Wyatt was setting off strange, scary feelings inside me.
I’m careful not to look at him again until we touch down on solid ground.
Eleven
“ I need some space .”
- A guy who’s too nice to tell you he hates the way you chew.
A fter landing , we disembark down narrow stairs straight onto a private runway where a pair of green, roofless Jeep Wranglers are waiting to take us to the hotel. Sloan and his PAs head for one — Trey and Annabelle are scribbling down notes on their clipboards as quickly as our beloved director can voice them. The rest of the crew, flying commercial, won’t arrive until tomorrow morning — till then, we’re free to explore the island and enjoy a brief respite, so long as we don’t get ourselves killed or so injured we have to delay filming. Harper and I have plans to soak up as many rays as possible, in our spare hours.
The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1) Page 17