How Not to Fall in Love (Love, Hate, and Other Lies We Told #2)

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

I don't even think my father ever saw me brush my teeth. It's mortifying, humiliating, and so foamy! He must sense my deer-in-the-headlights fear.

  "I've tasted your spit," Spencer says casually.

  I whimper.

  "How about if I don't look?" he turns around, but as soon as the white foam funnels from my mouth that sly fox peeks.

  My cheeks blister along with my chest, my outie, and my kneecaps—did I mention I'm naked? I wipe my face, and then say, "Get meowtta here," throwing myself onto the bed and pulling the covers over my head.

  He pads across the room with an uneven gait. "Did you just say meow?" Spencer asks, tugging on the covers.

  I reply with a muffled, "I have no idea what you're talking ameowt."

  The covers whoosh up briefly and then he's underneath with me like our own private igloo.

  "I'm pretty sure you just did it again."

  "I don't know what you're meowting about."

  "Meow?" Spencer asks. In the soft glow of the daylight filtering in, his smile reveals perplexed amusement. His dark lashes skim his cheeks. His hair is tousled. His chin is a masterpiece. Damn, he's handsome.

  My heart thuds between us. It's as though I'm sipping air through a straw. "I need a meowment." This is getting intense. I might be falling… Maybe I already did.

  My feet slap the hardwood floor. "I need coffee. Want anything?" I ask, throwing on the nearest articles of clothing: a sweatshirt, leggings, two different socks, and a scarf that may have been used last night to help loosen his hamstrings, among other things.

  He sits up in bed, resting a hand behind his head with the confidence that I'll be back because if I'm a cat then he's my catnip. But that also means I need my independence. Now. Meow. Immediately.

  I dash down the hall, pound the button for the lobby in the elevator, and inhale deeply when I reach the street. Like a cat on the side of a thunderous path, I bob and weave amidst the oncoming traffic. An irritable honk from a cabbie startles me and I dodge a paper bag caught in the wind. I sprint ten blocks, twenty, putting as much distance as I can between our building and myself. I only slow when I remember my excuse: coffee. Starbucks supplies me with a vanilla latte.

  I drift along the streets as the day warms with a hint of the spring thaw. Icicles drip, slush runs in puddles along the sides of the road. I pass a park revealing the green of crocus shoots and tender grass. Boutiques advertise winter sales and clearance shopping. Office buildings and restaurants crowd with people glad to be outdoors. I rarely see this much city in such a short amount of time. I wander until I smell chocolate and butter—a bakery on the corner invites me in. I order a cookie.

  It's fresh and chocolate chip and as big as my head. I break it in half and shove it in my mouth like a starved animal. Crumbs dot my jacket. It doesn't matter; I've crossed the line of composure and mystery. He saw me brushing my teeth. I'm ruined! I tuck the other half of the cookie back into the wax bag. My phone vibrates with a few texts—one from Navy, another from Tori, but notably none from Spencer. I ignore them because I can only think about him. Later, my phone rings with a call from the studio, wondering why I didn't show up to teach. Why? Because I brushed my teeth in front of a guy, leaving me feeling vulnerable and confused and senseless. I scrub my hands down my face. I forgot to go to work. Seriously this time, what's happening to me?

  I continue to roam Manhattan until the sun dips behind the skyscrapers and the commuters leave work for a weekend spent relaxing or partying—heading for cocktail hour or to clubs later. Clubs. Parties. Drinking!

  I lost track of Katya, sex goddess, empowered, independent female over these last few weeks, and I'm on a mission to find her.

  I take a cab back to my neighborhood and creep past Spencer's door. I wash away the city grime. I scrub and exfoliate the weeks spent in his bed. I moisturize and primp, returning to my effortlessly put together self. I pull on my tightest dress. I try on the heels Spencer gave me, but I don't need reminders of him with me tonight and trade them for a different pair.

  I call up my girlfriends, leaving them messages to meet me later. I send a dozen texts with the address of the club I'm going to. But when I get there, bypassing the line and instantly engulfed in the party vibe of vices and victory over monogamy, I don't see any familiar faces. Is the turnover that quick in this city? Out of the game for a few weeks and I don't recognize anyone?

  I get a reply from Tori On a date. Let's meet for brunch tomorrow!

  I get a drink and a message comes in from Marc. Dinner at home with my new guy. Let's grab coffee soon.

  Then Lydia writes Broadway show and a late dinner with a friend ;-) You can meet us if you want.

  No, I want to dance and forget about couples. I don't want to think about Spencer. He doesn't call or text, which makes it easier when a guy buys me a drink. He leans close to my ear, trying to talk, but I can't hear him over the music. It's never mattered anyway. A hook up isn't built on whether a guy is a good conversationalist. What matters is how capable he is in bed and by the way this guy moves on the dancefloor, I think I found a winner. One song blends into the next as we dance and drink and dance some more, but my mind drifts…

  I learned early on that being pretty—some say gorgeous—, is a gift to those who see me or at least think they like what they see. They don't see the whole me, just what's on the surface. I'm not complaining. But it's an exchange with people. It's easy, straightforward and understood by the mind as pleasing to look at me. However when I open my mouth, being smart complicates the matter. Most people are uncertain what to do with a confident, well-spoken pretty girl. I'm many things and being self-assured in my voice and myself is one of them. But when I go out, I turn it off and leverage my pretty to get that hit of gratification, adoration, and adrenalin: when flirting, kissing, and with sex.

  But when this guy's lips move toward mine, with unfamiliar contours, and breath more sour and less mint, I pull away, remembering my voice. Remembering how Spencer sees me and listens to me.

  "Get meowtta here," I mutter and rush off.

  Once again, I creep past Spencer's door. Floral perfume and the vague scent of baking cookies waft in the hallway. A twinge in my belly turns into a stab in my gut, leaving me more confused than ever.

  Chapter 12

  Horny Broads and Dirty Old Men

  While I get ready the next morning, I keep an ear on the hallway, listening for the telltale sounds of the walk of shame. I have no doubt that without me there last night Spencer called a girl willing to dress up in a tight fitting white dress and play nurse. I'm sure I looked better. Also, I know how he likes his pillows, fluffed just so with one on his side and another under his knee. But it's not like we were officially dating or anything. Whatever. Nothing was defined. We're adults. We can do what we want.

  I need to get back on track. I missed a yoga class yesterday. I've never failed in my responsibilities. Ever. I call the studio and make amends. Apology accepted. Conveniently, they need someone last minute to cover for the mid-morning seniors class so I volunteer.

  I pause outside Spencer's door and listen. There's silence, but while I wait for the elevator, I think I hear laughter. It could be the TV or maybe I'm just overtired and overthinking things.

  While I wait in line to order a coffee, I tell myself he's a free man. He can do what he wants. Heck, I went out dancing last night—a cat on the prowl. But I did go home before anything happened…

  "What can I get for you?" the barista asks.

  "Clarity."

  The returned expression is not one of insight or amusement.

  "Vanilla latte please," I say quickly so I don't wind up with spit in my morning beverage.

  The eight silver-haired yoga students regale me with stories of the old days as we focus on chair poses and gentle stretching. I get war stories: both on the battlefield and in the bedroom. I get a recipe for quiche and see eight photos of grandchildren—between just two proud grandmothers. It's all very endearing and sweet. They pro
vide a great distraction until I remember the woman at the resort who cornered me in the bathroom and banged my ear off about intimacy.

  I don't want to think about intimacy or passion. Of course, I blurt, "What are your thoughts about intimacy?" Maybe I don't want to think about it, but apparently, I don't mind talking about the subject.

  Maud, a woman who reminds me of the lady from the resort says, "Oh, when you reach our age, every experience is intimate. How can it not be? We're so close to life and death. It would be a shame to miss out on any of it because you just never know—"

  "When your number will be up." Ralph, Maud's crotchety old husband finishes for her.

  She continues more delicately, "I don't mean for it to sound morbid. If by intimacy, you mean being close to every moment, then I think very highly of it. Like what you teach in yoga about being present, but not only to the moment but to each other."

  "And if by intimacy you mean looking at this saggy, wrinkled, gray sack of flesh, then I want no part of it." Ralph harrumphs, gesturing to himself.

  Another older gentleman strokes his beard and says, "I think I look distinguished."

  "And I earned all of these wrinkles. Every single one. And while I don't find myself getting intimate with a lover these days, I don't object to having an intimate hands on experience from time to time," says Margarita, a brazen older gal with a stripe of pink in her hair to support her daughter who has breast cancer.

  "I taught a class up in Vermont recently and the subject was passion and perspective, but then it veered more into intimacy—getting closer to your partner both on the mat and off."

  "Will you teach us?" a jolly old fellow named Walter asks with an eye on Margarita.

  I smile. "Well, if you all come back next week I'll see what I can do."

  "What's wrong with now?" Walter asks. "I might not be here next week."

  "Why not?" I ask.

  "Well, there's the diabetes, the stent in my heart, the herniated disc, the possibility of gout at any moment, pneumonia, a piano could fall from a window..."

  "Walter!" Margarita scolds.

  "What? I'm ninety-six; it's a damn miracle I'm still breathing."

  "Well, in that case, if no one else objects let's talk about passion and intimacy."

  I pair them up, making sure Walter and Margarita are together. I modify the poses I introduced up at the resort, mostly emphasizing the physical contact aspect of each one. After three or four poses, Maud returns to her seat.

  "Everything okay?" I ask her discretely.

  She shrugs and with a sidelong glance at Ralph she says, "He doesn't want to do it."

  He gazes into the corner, not sparing a look in our direction.

  "It's not like I'm asking him to make love," she mutters. "I gave up on that."

  I didn't expect to wear my sex-therapist hat today, but I put it on nonetheless. "So you haven't lately?" I've never thought about what happens in a marriage when you get old. I can't imagine not having sex regularly.

  Her cheeks turn the color of a spring rose and she shakes her head.

  "Why not?"

  "He won't. Afraid he'll have a heart attack and scar me for life."

  "I say that's the perfect way to go," Walter says, apparently having overheard our conversation. However, in his defense, I do have to speak up so she can hear me.

  "Dirty old man," Margarita jokes, gripping his hand in the pose they're doing.

  "Horny old broad," he fires back with a smile and gently pulls her closer to intensify the stretch or just to have her closer, I'm not entirely sure.

  "I'm younger than you," she counters.

  Their smiles lengthen and they don't break eye contact or the pose.

  Maud says, "Until today, he hasn't touched me in four years."

  "There was that time you fell," Ralph hollers, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

  I take Maud's small hand in mine and Ralph's papery hand in the other, giving it a little squeeze. "Heart still beating?" I ask.

  He nods like a scolded child.

  "What Maud said about intimacy, well, it's true. I don't know what happens after you die, but if you're afraid of scarring her for life by having a heart attack while in bed, well, what about leaving her with a hole in her heart, a vacancy where your intimate relationship once filled her?" Walter says.

  The room goes silent.

  My mother comes into focus in my mind with her broken, deceived heart.

  Ralph stares at Maud. Color lifts his cheeks and his eyes water. "Well, I suppose when you put it that way."

  I glance at the clock. "We have time for one more pose."

  "Corpse pose," Walter says. "Don't worry; I won't die on the mat."

  Everyone laughs, but I'm not as amused by his joke as I am interested in how they truly are intimate with life and death, with themselves and each other. But my laughter turns dark when I realize how much all of that scares me. And when I'm ninety-five, will I be a Maud, a Ralph, a Walter or Margarita, or Phillis, who I hardly noticed because she's sitting alone toward the back of the class, silent and stationary.

  Everyone leaves with a (relative) skip in his or her step except Phillis. I pat her back gently as she ties her shoe. She startles.

  "Sorry," I say.

  I receive a witchy scowl in response.

  Oh dear. "Did you like the class?"

  "Only came because my son paid for the six week session. He made me promise to show up. Said I need to get out more."

  "I'm glad you came."

  "Are you?" She levels me with a glare.

  "Sure," I answer because I don't know what else to say to that.

  "All your talk about intimacy, well, I don’t see a ring on your finger."

  My hand rises to my hip. "I don't see one on yours," I counter. What's this old lady's problem?

  "I'd think if you were going to talk with authority on a subject you should have some firsthand experience."

  "I have plenty of experience with passion and—" but I close my mouth, silencing my retort because she's right, at least on one account. And so was the woman at the resort. Is it that obvious that I don't commit to long term or even short term relationships?

  I get a sharp eyebrow that rivals my worst bitch brow as she shuffles off.

  Well, you can't win them all over.

  Walter and Margarita wait for the bus outside the studio together and a faint smile twinges on my lips.

  I toss my empty paper cup in the trash and gather my things when my phone rings with a call from Navy. Still shaken by the conversation and realization I hesitate before answering.

  Navy gushes about Rome and Carrick and all the gelato she's been eating. When I finally get a word in I say, "I think I'm going to stop having sex."

  The line is silent until Navy says, "Katya?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Oh, for a minute I thought I'd dialed the wrong number. I mean, it sounded like you when you answered, but reception over here isn't crystal clear. Did you say that you're going to stop texting? Or you're in the mood for some Mex, as in tacos? I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"

  "I said I'm going to stop having sex."

  "Do I need to come home?" she asks, aghast.

  I smile despite myself. "No, I've just been thinking a lot about relationships and commitments and I decided to take a break."

  "Because all your encounters with men revolve around sex?"

  "Uh, yeah." I hadn’t thought about it exactly like that.

  "Because you've never been in a true relationship?"

  The truth leaves me feeling a little empty. "I guess not."

  "Because you're in love with our neighbor and are afraid of getting closer to him so you thought it would be a good idea to cut off your nose to spite your face?"

  "I don't even understand that expression."

  "You used it on me once. Remember when I punched the counter?"

  "And you were running away from reconciling with Carrick."

  "Aren't y
ou doing the same thing?"

  "No. I'm not running from anyone because unfortunately he hurt his leg and is in a cast. I just need to figure some things out."

  "So long as it involves keeping your promise to work on your commitment issues, then I support you. Remember when I moved in, you told me—"

  I've never stayed in the same apartment for more than a year or so. I've rarely been with a guy for more than a night, until Spencer came along. I switched majors four times before I settled on feminist studies. You could say I have a hard time picking and sticking with something or someone. I sigh.

  "I heard that," Navy says. "That's the sound of knowing that what I said is true."

  "I should work on getting myself sorted out before I enter a relationship," I deflect.

  "Fine."

  "So in the meantime I'll avoid him."

  "And why would you want to do that?"

  "Well, I don't want my relationships to only be about sex," I say.

  "Getting to know him better, dare I suggest, dating, and sex aren't mutually exclusive. You enjoy sex with him, right? "

  "Yeah," I start to recount the last time we did it, but she cuts me off.

  "TMI. I'm already familiar with the details. So, if you want to avoid Spencer, which I think is a foolish idea—" I hear honking in the background overlaid with Carrick saying, "I agree with Navy."

  "Of course he does," I mutter.

  "Listen, I know Spencer well enough and believe me, it's crossed my mind for you to be wary because I was under the distinct impression that he isn't a committer, but people change, especially when they meet their OTP."

  I imagine her and Carrick exchanging a knowing glance. "My OTP?!"

  She ignores my interjection.

  "You know what's best for you, but I think you should give him a chance."

  She takes my silence as disagreement and says, "But if you were to avoid him, you need to set boundaries, don't accept gifts or kind gestures…"

  "Okay, good ideas. How do you know all of this?"

  "I read an article once."

  Probably when Carrick was trying to win her forgiveness.

  "I can do this. I'll just avoid Spencer."

  "Our neighbor. The guy you've been helping take care of. The one who you've had the best sex of your life with—and you've had a lot of sex. Good luck with that," she says before the phone goes quiet.