by Julia Kent
Now, let me say for a moment here that I know I’m being an ass. And if she demanded I let her go, I would. I just feel like a thousand BBs from a BB gun all shoved inside a large glass jar, being shaken by a hyperactive seven-year-old boy. All that kinetic emotional energy makes me feel the impulse to do something, but I lack the coherent emotional centeredness to know what to do.
Doing Shannon is pretty much the only tool in my toolbox.
Well, I have another tool, but—
SPRITZ!
A mist of water smacks my cheek and ear.
“What the hell?” I shout, my palm wet as I reach up and wipe my cheek. Stubble greets me. Damn. It’s after five, isn’t it? Time for my second shave. My eyes register a spray nozzle and then—
SPRITZ!
“Are you spraying me?” I choke out, dodging her before she can get me again.
Shannon’s face is determined, her jaw set in self-righteous anger. “You won’t stop wrestling with my body, you get the spray bottle.”
I’m a little too turned on, suddenly. “I’ve been a bad, bad dog.”
She throws the bottle at my head. I dodge that, too (thank you, Milton Academy fencing instructors...) and laugh.
“You are impossible!” she hisses as she edges toward the door.
BZZZZZ.
I don’t want to answer Grace’s intercom. I know it’s someone in Madagascar ready to scream at me because a website widget is three pixels out of order. Or the New Zealanders complaining the exchange rate isn’t favorable and that people don’t want to spend $212 for their foreskin-based youth cream but are fine with $199.
“That’s why you love me,” is all I can say to Shannon as I kick the spray bottle under my desk.
Her back faces me as she storms out, but she pauses in the doorway, manicured hand grabbing the threshold, her other hand on the doorknob. I have so much I want to say right now.
Thank you.
I love you.
You’re awesome.
You told my father that I matter.
I have never met a soul as incredible as you.
Your tits are the best I’ve ever—
Yeah. A lot of emotions inside.
“I do love you,” she says under her breath. Turning slowly, she faces me, face flushed, eyes wild. Her body’s perfectly composed now, and you’d never guessed that two minutes ago I was between those lovely, creamy thighs.
Her eyes narrow but her mouth widens with a smile that could blind the sun.
And then she’s gone, leaving me with a matching grin.
If all goes according to plan, I get that woman for the rest of my life.
What the hell did I do to deserve her?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
One day before the proposal...
I’m driving home when the dreaded Text of Doom arrives.
Want to come over?
I text back:
No. I refuse to sleep with you in your apartment any more. I’ll have the driver come and get you, though.
I’m in the limo and we’re stuck in traffic. Construction in Boston is like a fifth major sport. You have the Patriots, the Bruins, the Celtics, the Red Sox and the Orange Cones.
Shannon texts back:
I don’t want to come to your apartment. Too boring. And who said I offered to sleep with you? Amy and Amanda and I are playing Rock Band. Come on.
She really knows how to make it so appealing. Three women with the vocal skills of a paralyzed moose singing songs from the 1980s.
Makes a fundraiser for clean water in the Sudan chaired by Jessica Coffin look like fun.
Plus there’s that whole not sleeping with me part.
My phone rings. It’s Shannon.
“Why won’t you come over?” Her words have a sloppy feeling to them.
“Are you drunk?” I ask, perking up. Hmmm. Hope. “Is this a drunken booty call?”
“No. I mean, yeah, I’ve been drinking, but no. Not a booty call. We just want you to pick up some Thai food and ice cream. This is a lazy call.”
Wait a minute. “We” means Shannon, Amy, and—of course—Amanda. Two women who live together and their third arm want me to pick up Thai takeout and ice cream?
I suddenly realize I’m definitely not getting any tonight. This is a Period Errand.
Any man who has been in a relationship with a woman long enough goes through the initiation of The Period Errand. It starts with a sudden craving for ice cream and ends with the Purchase of Shame. You know the one.
Ibuprofen, the super-size box of tampons that is bigger than an NFL linebacker, Reese’s cups, and two pints of ice cream. (And neither of those pints is for you).
After you survive the clerk’s smirk, you drive home to your woman, who is on the couch wearing her “fat pants” (not my term, don’t blame me) and who greets you with eager anticipation and a quick kiss on the cheek.
She then makes love to the ice cream and you’re stuck watching some Nicholas Sparks novel adaptation on the Oprah channel while she sobs on your shoulder and begs you never to die.
I’ve been moved into new territory, I see, as seconds pass and she becomes impatient. I’m now expected to run Period Errands for Shannon’s entire female pack.
On some level, that means I’ve gained some kind of trust from all three women, but on another level I feel like my balls have shriveled to raisins that Ben & Jerry’s will put into their new flavor:
Emasculated Marshmallow (Pussy) Whip.
“Please, Declan? Please?” she begs.
I sigh. Heavy is my heart (among other body parts...). I want to see her, and Amanda and Amy are fun to hang out with. The day has been as crappy as I expected, and the idea of drinking a few beers and belting out a Queen or Beatles song sounds about right.
“Fine. Just place the order, and—”
“So, at the store,” she adds, the pleading tone long gone. Now that I’ve acquiesced, she shifts into take-him-for-granted mode. “I need you to get—”
“Ibuprofen and tampons,” I say.
“How’d you guess?” she whispers.
“Pure luck.”
We get off the phone and I buzz my driver, Lance. He rolls the divider down and looks at me via the rearview mirror.
“Change of plans, Mr. McCormick?”
“Yes. We need to go to Shannon’s place. And swing by the Thai place on Route 9.”
He smirks. “You need me to go to the grocery store on the way there, too?” Great. The smirk.
I smirk back. “Yes, Lance. Only this time, you can go in and buy what Shannon and her friends need.”
He pales.
I feel better.
* * *
We pull into Shannon’s driveway to find a picture of Marie plastered all over Amanda’s car. The Viagramobile. Amanda and Josh must have traded cars. Who has the Turdmobile? Carol? Poor Jeffrey and Tyler. It might be funny now, but wait until they hit middle school and their friends start calling them Turdboy.
I make a note to offer karate lessons as a birthday present. That’s what uncles do, right?
The thought dissolves as the front door opens.
“You are a God!” Amanda declares as I appear at their doorstep, Lance carrying everything for me. Amanda and Amy descend on him like hungry locusts and he takes in Amy like she’s eye candy.
“That’s my girlfriend’s little sister, Lance. Don’t even think about it.” I give him a good look. “Besides, she’s easily fifteen years younger than you.”
He backs off and goes out to the limo. Good man. Then again, Amy’s wearing one of those spaghetti-strap tank tops, no bra, and yoga pants that say “bootylicious” across her ass.
Not that I’m looking.
Something protective rises up in me, and I feel a need to grab Jason, a shotgun, and to start cleaning it. With my driver’s teeth.
I’ve never had a little sister before. Suddenly I get a glimpse into the future, my and Shannon’s daughter on her first date. I feel really sorry fo
r her first love.
Amy’s red curls bounce along with, um, other parts that my driver shouldn’t be watching as she takes the food and scampers off to the safety of the couch. I walk in and Shannon greets me with a big kiss. It’s sweet and salty, her tongue bold and urgent. A guy could get used to being greeted like this.
“Thank you,” she murmurs against my jaw. Her hand reaches up and she scratches my neck. “Long day? You have stubble.”
“All men have stubble by ten o’clock.”
“Your stubble is thicker than most.”
“It’s the testosterone. It thickens everything.” I nudge my thigh against hers so she can feel how thick everything is. She just laughs. Great. I love it when she laughs at my hard on. Just love it.
She’s right, though. I generally have to shave a second time before late-day business meetings if I want to look more professional.
“I like it,” she says, nuzzling. Mixed signals. She’s sending me mixed signals. Why is she coming on to me in a room with Amanda and Amy?
There’s only one good reason: she wants something from me. And not sex. This would be so much easier if it were sex. But it’s never sex. When a woman you’ve been with for more than a year spontaneously comes on to you during her period, there’s an ulterior motive.
Chuckles approaches me like I am part of the Coast Guard and have a basket to lower from a helicopter to save him from drowning in the ocean. He begins to purr, a loud, rumbly noise that makes Amanda jump from across the room and stare at him. Chuckles never purrs. Only for me.
I pick him up and stroke his fur. We get each other. We’re the only men in the room. The testicled have to stick together.
Except he’s neutered, so...
“How was your day?” I ask Shannon in a fake voice.
She scowls. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I love you.” The only correct response when your testosterone is outweighed by a ratio of 3:1. Chuckles doesn’t count.
“This pad Thai is amazing. Thank you, Declan!” Amy calls out from the couch. She and Amanda are digging into a carton with separate forks. They don’t even bother with plates. Same with the pints of ice cream. It might say “four servings” on the side but what it should say is “get three different flavors together and four spoons and have at it.”
The marketing folks at Ben & Jerry’s really ought to do a data blitz and start tracking specific female customers’ cycles. Send a coupon out the week before. Think of the uptick in sales.
Hmm. File that one away for future campaigns.
“No problem,” I answer Amy, hoping they’ll spare the other carton for me and Shannon.
“Hey -- would you grab the extra soy sauce?” Amy asks me. “It’s in the cupboard.”
I open cabinet doors and stare and a sea of samples. Shannon’s idea of culinary delight is anything she can get for free on her mystery shops. A mudslide of soy sauce packets threaten to pour out like a ping-pong ball prank. I grab a handful, shove the pile back in, and close the door.
I’m not marrying her for her cooking.
“Want a beer?” Amanda asks as I plunk the soy sauce on the table in front of her and Amy. She’s dressed like Amy, but has a hoodie on. The logo is for a water delivery company I recognize from our facilities division. They deliver thousands of gallons for pool fillings. Her sweatshirt is so oversized it comes down to her knees.
“Sure.” She reaches down into a camping cooler filled with ice and hands me a brand that Jason must have left here for his daughters.
“That’s clever.” I’ve never seen the cooler in the living room before.
She shrugs. “We’re being efficient.”
“We’re being lazy,” Shannon and Amy intone together. Amanda’s face looks weird. Puffy. Like she’s been crying.
The room feels a little too small suddenly. The sound of Shannon popping the top off my beer slows down, as if I’m in the Matrix movies. Every second stretches into ten more and a dawning horror hits me.
This isn’t a Period Errand.
This is an Asshole Boyfriend Summit.
Worse—it might be both, combined.
I choke a little as I chug the first half of my beer down in one great gulp. The last Asshole Boyfriend Summit I was forced to attend was back in college, at Harvard. I was not the Asshole Boyfriend (note: the actual man is never, ever in attendance for these summits, and thank God).
The purpose of an Asshole Boyfriend Summit is to gather together as many friends, preferably female, to rip apart the ex to the point where the woman comes to see that she really is better off without him.
It’s like being stoned to death in absentia.
I wonder who the asshole is.
“It’ll be fine,” Amy murmurs to Amanda.
“I can’t believe I’m still thinking about him.” Amanda’s giving me wary looks. I retool my mission. Gone is the goal of a few beers, some Rock Band, and reluctant sex in Shannon’s bedroom with three pieces of furniture shoved against her door to prevent a Marie invasion, no matter how unintentional. I say I won’t ever have sex with her again in her apartment, but I say lots of things that aren’t true.
Turning down a shot at sex? I never put principles above my sex drive. That’s for monks and Duggar children.
That said, I’m not about to be the only man in a bowl of estrogen soup when one of them is processing a break-up. That’s like being a socialist at a Tea Party rally. Sure, you can be there, but when the crowd gets blood lust in them, who do you think will be scraping tar off their pecs and plucking feathers out of their ass?
Hmmm. Kinky.
Anyhow...I finish my beer and put the empty in the recycling bin in the apartment’s kitchen, which is about the size of my mailbox.
Amy and Amanda are whispering and every so often shooting me inscrutable looks. Shannon beckons me to snuggle on the couch and share the spare carton of noodles. I get three bites in before I hear it.
Andrew.
Amy says his name and I realize with a gigantic thud that my brother is the object of this summit.
Holy shit.
A tingling at the base of my skull begins. Pure evolutionary biology. As I share DNA with said asshole, I am now prey among the hunters. Soon I will be asked questions about my brother’s romantic activities. I would rather gnaw off my right testicle than—
Okay. Retract that.
I wouldn’t.
But talking about Andrew and...seriously? Amanda? in a romantic sense is about as interesting as discussing my dad’s latest piece of—
“Quick hogging all the shrimp!” Shannon complains.
I frown. “I’ve eaten exactly two pieces.”
She huffs. “Still...”
I hand her the carton.
Tears form in her eyes.
Oh, man. A Period Errand and an Asshole Boyfriend Summit and my brother? What kind of messed up karma did I earn in a prior life to deserve this?
I wrap my arms around her and whisper, “Should I go? Amanda seems upset.”
“She’s just...” Shannon shudders with a half-sob, a sigh of relief poking through. “It’s, um...”
I put her out of her secret-keeping misery. As Winston Churchill says, when you’re going through hell, keep going.
“This is about Andrew.”
She jerks in my arms. “Has he said anything about her?”
“What? No.” The only thing worse than talking about my brother’s sex life is being pumped as a conduit for information about his sex life. I need a shower. In a vat of napalm.
She shoots her eyebrows up and wipes her eyes. All business now, she interrogates me like I’m a perp in an episode of Law & Order.
“You’re sure he’s never talked about her?”
“I am.”
She glares. Ten seconds pass. Twenty. Fifty. Countless more. I can win staring contests. I can.
My eyes shift to her boobs.
There. The staring contest is so much easier now.
&nbs
p; She waits me out and crosses her arms over her boobs. Boo. I hold fast, though, and it’s Shannon who speaks first.
“They should definitely hook up,” she says.
“Yeah, Andrew’s always been a boob man.”
Silence. Oh, shit.
“You stare at Amanda’s breasts, too? It’s bad enough Andrew does, but—” Shannon interrupts herself, her face contorted into a mask of agony. She’s looking at me like I decapitated a baby panda on live television and had Gordon Ramsey turn it into sashimi.
A muffled scream from one of the other women in the bedroom tells me I’ve crossed a line, but my flailing Man Mind can’t figure out quite what that line was. Amanda will be part of the wedding party assuming I didn’t just destroy the proposal and our entire future together by commenting on Shannon’s best friend’s breasts. I need to fix this. Now.
In business meetings I am the calm one under pressure. Surrounded by a horde of hormonal women I am nothing but a pile of masculine fail.
Which means I have to pretend to be all dominant and confident. It’s my only hope. Cocky and arrogant work when you need them most, as long as you’re okay with looking like an asshole.
I’m comfortable with that.
Selective lying helps, too.
“I stare at everyone’s breasts,” I announce in a loud voice. “I’m a man. We’re programmed to do so. It’s an evolutionary trait.”
“Because of breastfeeding?”
“Because....breasts.” I look at her like she’s crazy, because she is. I mean...breasts. That’s all you need to know, right? Breasts are the female body equivalent of those little curved muscles at the hip on cut men’s bodies (and I have those, you know). You can’t explain why they’re hypnotic because....
Breasts.
No cry of outrage accompanies my statement, so I think I’m safe. I grab Shannon’s arm and pull her gently, but firmly, to the front door.
“Look, I don’t want Amanda to hear any of what I said, not because it’s wrong to say it, but because I don’t need a group of hysterical women about to pump themselves up on a rewatching of Return to Me—”
She gasps. “How did you know that’s the movie we’re planning to watch?”