by Lauren Rowe
Apparently, she’s waiting for me to say something, but I’m not in the mood to say a damned thing.
“So, you’re a fan of pirates, huh?” she finally asks, filling the awkward silence.
“Yup,” I say blandly.
“Cool,” she replies, like I’ve just said something eminently interesting.
I smirk to myself. This would be funny if it weren’t so fucking painful.
I open my mouth and close it again, unable to muster the energy for small talk.
She smiles at me. “Are you shy, Ryan?”
I smile at her. I’ve never been called shy a day in my life. But shyness would be the kindest excuse for our blatant lack of chemistry, so I decide to throw the poor woman a bone. “Yes, I’m very shy.”
“Well, don’t worry—I happen to love shy men.” She winks. “And, by the way, you’re doing great.”
Thank God, the waitress appears with our drinks, camouflaging the awkwardness of the moment, and I quickly take a long gulp of my liquid painkiller.
After a moment, What’s-Her-Name puts down her margarita and flashes me her most seductive smile. “I’m sure everyone tells you this all the time,” she says, “but you have the most beautiful eyes.”
Oh my God. It’s all I can do not to roll my “beautiful” eyes and run out of the restaurant screaming. This isn’t a conversation, it’s a prolonged Instagram post. “Thanks,” I say. I take a deep breath. “You, uh, have really beautiful hair.”
Kaylie-Kyla-Katie pets her dark hair from root to end like it’s a cat on top of her head. “Thanks. I use this conditioner from Brazil infused with tree nut oil—it really fortifies the shaft.” She tugs on a thick chunk of her hair, apparently demonstrating the efficacy of her Brazilian conditioner. (Either that, or she’s demonstrating how she’d yank my shaft if given half the chance.)
I shift in my seat. “So, hey, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself... please?” (Yeah, that “please” got tacked onto the end there because I suddenly realized the name I was about to call her—“Kendra”—probably wasn’t right.)
Thankfully, my uninteresting date takes the bait and launches into what’s sure to be a lengthy (and painfully uninteresting) monologue, thereby giving me some much-needed time to gather my thoughts.
Okay, so yeah, my fixation on Samantha these past six weeks hasn’t been rational—what kind of loon doesn’t feel attraction for a single woman for six fucking weeks because he can’t stop comparing every goddamned woman he meets to some flight attendant he chatted with in a bar? In my defense, though, I think my complete withdrawal from womankind these past six weeks hasn’t been so much about Samantha, per se, as my need to regroup after the whole Olivia fiasco. I mean, Jesus, getting involved with that woman was felony stupid—a lapse in judgment I’ll never understand—which means taking time off to figure my shit out is a smart and mature thing to do. Yeah, that’s it—I’m just being smart and mature.
Honestly, as I’m putting some real thought into this, I’d be willing to bet my super-charged attraction to Samantha that night six weeks ago had less to do with Samantha herself and more to do with my fractured state of mind that particular night. I bet if I met Samantha for the first time tonight—maybe downstairs at that real-estate mixer—there’d be no more chemistry with her than I’m feeling right now with Kiera-Kylie-Kendra.
What’s-Her-Name giggles loudly, drawing my attention to her monologue: “And so, I finally decided to get into mortgage banking because, obviously, my childhood dreams of becoming a ballerina weren’t gonna pan out, especially not with boobs like these!”
I glance at her boobs, note the objective beauty of them, and tune out again.
You know what? I’m acting crazy. What the fuck am I hoping to achieve by imitating a monk these days? Yeah, sure, I prefer sex with a partner I want to see again and again, but it’s not a necessity. I used to be a total manwhore back in the day. What the fuck happened to that guy? As I well know, sometimes, sex can be about nothing more than sex and there’s nothing wrong with that. I certainly don’t need to sit around for another six weeks (or, God forbid, months), saving myself for a woman Henn might never find.
Yeah, fuck it.
Time to get back on the horse and stop acting like a fucking lunatic-monk.
I tune back into whatever my date is saying, poised to suggest we take our food “to go” and maybe eat it at my place... but the minute I hear what she’s saying (“... and that’s why I prefer Chihuahuas to huskies!”), my dick shakes its little head, flips me the bird, and says, “Fuck naw, motherfucker—fuck naw.”
“Excuse me, Kendra,” I blurt, bolting upright.
Her face falls. “Kelsey.”
I cringe. God, I’m such a dick. “Sorry. I just remembered I have an important call to make. I’ll be right back.” Without waiting for a reply, I stride toward the front of the restaurant, swiping through my contacts list for Henn’s phone number as I go, just as the song overhead in the restaurant flips to a new song: “Bailando” by Enrique Iglesias.
Chapter 16
Ryan
“Ahab is forever Ahab, man. This whole act’s immutably decreed.”
“Why, hello there, Captain Morgan,” Henn says, answering my phone call. “How’s it going, sir?”
“Hey, Henn Star. Great. Good. Couldn’t be better. How are you?”
“Well, let’s just say if I were a superhero in a comic strip, my name would be ‘Captain I’m-So-Fucking-Awesome!’”
I chuckle. “That’s great, Henn.”
“So, I take it you’re calling because you’re losing your fucking mind about Samantha?”
“How’d you know?”
“Well, first off, you sound like the Energizer Bunny on crack right now. And, second off—wait, you’re not on crack, are you?”
“No. I’m currently high on Enrique Iglesias and nothing else.”
“Oh, good choice. Love that guy. And, second off, when I met you at the Climb & Conquer party, you looked like a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown back then, so I can only imagine how perilously close to the edge of the cliff of insanity you’re teetering a full four weeks later.”
“Actually, it’s been six weeks since the grand opening party, not four (but who’s counting?), and I’m not teetering ‘perilously close’ to the edge of the cliff of insanity, I’m dangling over it, holding onto a root in the ground by my little pinky.”
“Holy shit, it’s been six weeks since the party? Wow, time flies. I’m sorry, man, I got super busy with a bunch of big projects for the feds. Plus, right after the party, I stopped everything to help Josh with his proposal to Kat.”
“You helped Josh with his proposal? Kat didn’t tell me that. All she said was the proposal was ‘an amazing porno-fairytale.’”
Henn laughs. “I wasn’t there—I worked my magic behind the scenes. Plus, besides all that, Hannah finally moved to L.A., so I’ve been having fun with her. Fun fact: when your amazing girlfriend finally lives in the same city with you, working twenty hours a day doesn’t seem nearly as exciting as it used to.”
“Amen to that. I’m happy for you, brother.”
“Yeah, thanks, but your happiness for me isn’t keeping you from going batshit crazy, is it?”
“Not at all.”
“You’re completely obsessed, aren’t you?”
“I prefer to call it ‘hyper-focused.’”
“Yeah, that’s what all madmen call it.”
We both laugh.
“How bad is it?” Henn asks.
“Well, let’s see if this story encapsulates my current state of mind for you: I’m currently on a dinner date with a smokin’ hot woman in a little black dress (with perfect breasts) who, not five minutes ago, told me she wants to touch a tattoo currently covered by my shirt—and then added she wants to touch it ‘any time’; and, right after she said all that, I bolted from the table to call you because I can’t stand the thought of touching any woman other than
Samantha.”
“Wow. Your pecker’s holding out for Samantha.”
“Stubborn little prick,” I say.
“Idealistic little prick.”
“Dude, I don’t want anyone but her. It’s torture.”
“That’s so cool,” Henn says.
“Cool? I just said it’s torture.”
“We should all be so lucky to be tortured like that.”
“But I met her once in a fucking bar. This reaction is beyond over-the-top. It’s crazy.”
“I think it’s cool. When in doubt, always listen to your prick—it’s all-knowing.”
“Um, pretty sure that’s the exact opposite advice my father gave me as a teenager.”
Henn laughs.
“Seriously, man, I think I’ve lost my mind,” I say. “I’ve been going full-on Captain Ahab over this woman for six fucking weeks—a woman I’ve never even kissed. It makes no sense, but I can’t stop thinking about her. Yearning for her.”
“Well, duh. She left her glass slipper behind on the palace steps and you found it. Who could resist that? Those fairytales are classics for a reason, man—they tap into our collective id.”
“Henn Star, you’re a man after my own heart.”
“Thanks, Captain Ahab,” Henn says warmly. “Look, all I’m saying is, if you’re the lucky guy who found Cinderella’s glass slipper on the palace steps, then, by God, it’s your duty to turn the kingdom upside-down looking for her.”
Whoa. This nerd’s given me more clarity in one phone call than I’ve had for the past six fucking weeks. “You’re a genius, Henn,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Hey, it’s not brain surgery: the heart wants what the heart wants. Or, I guess, the pecker. Some things are immutably decreed.”
“‘Immutably decreed’?”
“Indubitably.”
I laugh.
“Anything like this ever happen to you before?” Henn asks.
“Fuck no. I swear to God I’m normally the sanest Morgan brother of them all. Well, actually, the second sanest—it’s awfully hard to out-sane Colby Morgan.” I sigh. “You still think you’re gonna find her?”
“Dude, I’ll find her. There are only so many airlines and so many Samanthas. Just tell your pecker to do a crossword puzzle or something and wait it out. I got this. I promise I’ll get cracking on the Search for Samantha in the next week or two—three at the outside. Regardless, I’ll get back to you before we leave for Josh and Kat’s wedding in a month. I certainly wouldn’t want your pecker feeling peaked in paradise.”
“Thanks, Henn. I appreciate it. God help me if I’m still obsessing about this shit in Hawaii.”
“Looks like it’s gonna be an amazing week,” Henn says. “But that’s Josh Faraday for you—he doesn’t do parties half-assed.”
“My sister told me Josh’s assistant—what’s her name again?”
“T-Rod.”
“That’s right. My sister told me Josh put T-Rod in charge of planning the week and she’s lined up a whole bunch of stuff for us, like luaus and helicopter rides and—”
Henn cuts me off. “Hey, Ryan? Sorry to cut you off, but didn’t you say you left some poor woman with perfect breasts sitting at a table when you called me?”
Every hair on my body stands on end, all at once. “Oh, shit,” I blurt. “God, I’m such an asshole. Talk to you later, man. Thanks again.”
Henn laughs. “Any time, Captain Ahab. Oh, and, dude? Let the poor girl down easy. I don’t think you realize just how studly you are. You’re kind of the shit, man, hate to break it to you. Try to be kind about letting her down.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
I hang up and stride back to Kayla-Kylie-Katrina at our table.
When I approach, she looks up from her phone and smiles. “Everything okay?”
“No, actually.” I signal to the waitress for the check. “I’m sorry, Kendra, but—”
“Kelsey,” she corrects, cutting me off.
“Kelsey. Sorry. You’re incredibly beautiful and a great conversationalist and this has nothing to do with you whatsoever—but I’ve got to call it a night.”
Chapter 17
Ryan
“[T]hen all collapsed and the great shroud of the sea rolled on...”
“Fuck,” I say softly, holding my phone against my ear with white knuckles. I’m lying in bed, naked and alone (a state of being that’s become par for the course for me these past two months), Henn’s crushing words sounding in my ear.
Right before answering this call from Henn, I’d just finished jerking myself off while watching the music video for the Spanish-language version of “Bailando” (because, holy shit, the lead actress-dancer in the red dress totally reminds me of Samantha!)—and I was about to drift into a happy, blissful sleep, content in the knowledge that a genius-hacker was out in the world doing God’s work for me, when Henn called. And now, not thirty seconds into this phone call, I’m wide awake and feeling like I’ve been punched in the gut.
“I’m really sorry, Ryan,” Henn says. “I was so sure.” He sighs. “At this point, the only thing I can think is her legal name’s gotta be something different than Samantha. It’s not all that uncommon, actually. Did you know Miley Cyrus’ given name is Destiny Hope? But do you think Miley has ever introduced herself to a guy in a bar as ‘Destiny Hope’? I think not.”
I rub my forehead with my free hand. “Yeah, it’s gotta be something like that. A nickname different from her given name. Shit.”
“Ironic, huh? I scoured nine airlines’ databases and it turns out you were probably right about Delta all along—we just didn’t have the right name to search.”
I sigh. “Well, can we run another search in Delta, then? Like, I dunno, maybe look at the files of all twenty-seven-year-old female flight attendants?”
“The database isn’t set up to search that way. I’m sure I could limit my search to flight attendants only, but without a name or employee-number, that’s about all I could do—and that’d be a helluva lot of files to look through.”
“Hey, I’m totally willing to review them myself. I’ll fly down to L.A. some weekend, whenever you’re free, and sift through them.”
“Ha! You think you’d need a weekend to get through all those files? Ryan, Delta’s got, like, eighty thousand employees. Even if I could narrow things down to flight attendants for you, it’d still probably take you a month to sift through everything, and that’s if you do it without a day off.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry, man. I know how badly you wanted this.”
“It’s okay. I should have known: Captain Ahab doesn’t catch the whale.”
“Yeah, well, I was really hoping this time he would. The name thing just turned out to be an unexpected snafu.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s okay. It’s karma for me being cheesy enough to tell a girl I’d be all over her ‘like blanco on arroz.’”
Henn laughs. “You said that to her?”
“Yup. That’s how bad I had it for her.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “But, okay. No more whining allowed. I’ve got no choice but to turn the page and try to look at the silver lining here. I mean, hey, here’s an upside: I get to have sex again, right? With someone not nearly as great, but, hey.”
“That’s something.”
“And not a moment too soon, man. Is it possible for a guy to die from lack of sex? Because, if so, you’d better read me my last rites.”
“No, I’m quite certain lack of sex can’t be fatal; otherwise, I’d be dead. Not these days, of course, thanks to Hannah, but I’ve had some dry spells in my time that would have been terminal, if that were a thing. Oh, hey, heads up, if manwhoring is gonna be your thing again, you’d better tell Kat. At the Climb & Conquer party, she told me if the search for Samantha went bust, she was dying to play matchmaker with you and T-Rod.”
I roll my eyes. “Great. Just what I need.”
“Hey, I wouldn’t be so quick to say ‘no, th
anks.’ T-Rod’s gorgeous.”
“Yeah? Actually, I think Sarah said something about that, come to think of it.”
“You know Reed Rivers—the guy Josh and I went to UCLA with?”
“Yeah. I mean, no, I haven’t met him yet, but my little brother Dax is hoping to get his band signed by Reed’s record label. Why?”
“Well, just to give you an idea of T-Rod’s allure, Reed Rivers can get any woman he wants—literally—he even dated Isabel Randolph for a while—and he’s always had a thing for T-Rod.”
“Then why the fuck is my dumbshit of a sister scheming to set me up with her?” I shout. “I’m not gonna horn in on fucking Reed Rivers.”
“No, no. I meant Reed wants to hook up with The Mighty T-Rod—not that he’s ever gonna get to do it.” Henn laughs. “T-Rod’s like a sister to Josh. No manwhores allowed, especially not the biggest manwhore we know. Reed’s a great guy—the absolute best—but when it comes to women, trust me, he’s a menace.”
“How old is T-Rod?”
“A few years younger than Josh, I think. Twenty-six or twenty-seven, maybe? She started with him right out of college. She’s a real straight arrow (which is why she’s the perfect person to keep Josh in line), but that’s why he’s always felt really protective of her. You should have seen Josh after T-Rod’s last boyfriend played her. Josh pretty much wanted to hire a hitman to kill the guy.”
“Interesting,” I say. “I’ll keep an eye out for her in Hawaii. But, obviously, no matter what Kat thinks, I shouldn’t touch T-Rod with a ten-foot pole. No sense pissing Josh off, right?”
“Yeah, probably for the best—unless you’re planning to marry her.”
“Nope. I’m done looking for true love, son. Next week in paradise, it’s gonna be mai tais and no-strings fuckery with cocktail waitresses for me. I give up.”
“Don’t give up. Now you’re making me sad.”
“Sorry. I give up.”
“If you say so. But, hey, if you happen to get some newfangled idea about how to find your Cinderella between now and then, don’t hesitate to give me a call and I’ll jump on it for ya, okay, Captain Ahab?”