Dunkin and Donuts

by Lyons, Daralyse

  Dunkin and Donuts

  Daralyse Lyons

  Excerpt from Dunkin and Donuts

  He opens the door and takes the stairs two-at-a-time to join me. Dunkin wraps his arms around me and together we look out the window where his clothes mock us from where they’ve been strewn across the yard. A few of my judgmental neighbors peer outside their windows while pretending not to peer outside their windows. Ms. Peg is actually so bold as to come outside and frown across her yard at the mess I’ve made of mine. I shut the window.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Dunkin.

  “So am I,” he replies. “I’m sorry I shut you out of my life for a while. I was so scared and so vulnerable and I didn’t want you to see me like that. I was a mess.”

  “And clearly I have my shit together,” I say, gesturing to the mess I’ve made of the lawn. “So Marlene’s okay?”

  “Yeah, she’s gonna be fine. If you want to, we can go see her a bit later. I’ll introduce you to Desiree.”

  “Can I take back what I said about us breaking up? Can we just forget I ever said that?” I implore.

  “It’s already forgotten. We’ll just consider this our first official fight.”

  “Thanks, Dunkin.”

  We kiss.

  “And, you know…” Dunkin says. “The best thing about having a fight is the make-up sex.”

  Dunkin and Donuts

  A Books to Go Now Publication

  Copyright © Daralyse Lyons 2015

  Books to Go Now

  Also published on Smashwords

  For information on the cover illustration and design, contact bookstogonow@gmail.com

  First eBook Edition –January 2015

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

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  Look For Daralyse Lyons Other Stories

  The Dating Diet

  Santa’s Answer

  Chapter One

  I’m not very good at the whole girlfriend thing. Thankfully, Dunkin doesn’t seem to notice. We’ve been together for nearly six months now and, despite his parents’ objections, he loves me. I love him too. I’ve loved the impish doctor since he and I were pretending to be entirely platonic friends.

  I like it much better now that we’ve given up that pretense and have taken to spending our Sunday mornings together in bed—naked. Which brings me to my original assertion about not being a very good girlfriend. I am not domestic in the least and, lest you think I’m exaggerating my lack of domestic skills, don’t. I have burned our breakfast yet again.

  Dunkin smiles up at me from where he’s splayed out on the bed in all his nude gloriousness and wrinkles his nose as I hold up a piece of black toast.

  “Again?” He laughs.

  “Your appliances suck.”

  “You bought them,” he points out, which is true. I did buy him a new toaster and a microwave on a pre-dating shopping excursion.

  I shrug then leave the toast on the night table and snuggle in beside him. I’ve found nudity to be a wonderful diversionary tactic. With booty on the brain, my boyfriend will cease to find my lack of Martha Stewart-like skills problematic. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but I beg to differ. There is another organ located south of the equator that endears me to Dunkin.

  “What do ya think?” My boyfriend raises an eyebrow at me. Apparently, he still has breakfast on the brain.

  “Donuts?” It’s more of a proposition than a question.

  This too has become part of our Sunday morning ritual. The first time I suggested donuts for breakfast, I was being ironic, cleverly mocking Dunkin for his name. But, after biting into a Boston Crème, I realized that donuts are no laughing matter. I have to confess that, more often than not, I burn the toast on purpose just to get a donut. Most women fake orgasms. I fake cooking ineptitude.

  Well, okay, truth be told, I am a lousy cook. But, I can usually manage to make toast or scramble an egg. And I am the queen of the microwaved baked potato. Still, there’s nothing like a Sunday morning donut to start the day out right and I’ll burn a hundred pieces of toast just for a good cruller.

  I’m sure Dunkin is on to me because he says, “I’m onto your game Shayla Ross,” as he tugs on a pair of pants—Be still my heart. He’s going commando—and a T-shirt.

  Braless and sans panties myself, I throw on a sweatshirt and sweatpants. One doesn’t need to dress to impress at the drive-through.

  “Whatever are you talking about?” I wink.

  He puts an arm around my shoulder and together we descend the stairs, walk out his front door and climb into Dunkin’s Land Rover. This too is part of the ritual. Dunkin drives while I fidget with the radio and sing along off-key into my makeshift microphone (today, my fist) as he either laughs at me or hums along. He’s humming today.

  “Boston Crème and a coffee. Cream and sugar?” Dunkin asks.

  How’d I get such a beautiful boyfriend? I’m not exactly unattractive. I’m 5’6” and would have a decent figure if I just lost ten pounds. I have curly brown hair and bright brown eyes and a winning smile—or so I’ve been told.

  But, Dunkin looks like he could be on the cover of People Magazine as one of the top 20 bachelors of the year. He has striking good looks, a chiseled physique and grosses more in a month than I do in a year.

  I’m a kindergarten teacher at a private school and, although I love my job, it pays bubkes which, as it happens, is less than diddly-squat and, more days than not, I come home with someone else’s bodily fluids on me.

  To say that I feel a tad inadequate in comparison to my handsome, brilliant, doctor boyfriend would be an understatement. But, I make him laugh and our chemistry in bed is amazing so that’s gotta count for something.

  “Shayla?” Dunkin takes his eyes off the road just long enough to look at me quizzically.

  I snap out of it. “Yes please. Boston Crème, coffee and…an orange juice.”

  I convince myself that the citrus in the oranges will magically counteract the calories of the donut because I read somewhere once that citrus cuts down on adipose tissue. Surely, this breakfast will help me to lose weight. Also, sex burns calories and let’s just say that Dunkin and I have been burning a lot of calories this weekend.

  We pull into the Dunkin Donut’s parking lot and, not surprisingly, the line for the

  drive- through appears to be about a mile long. I groan.

  “Let’s just go in and order,” he suggests.

  I care more about procuring food than I do about my appearance so I wipe the sleep crust out of my eyes and follow my incredibly sexy boyfriend inside. Who cares that I am braless and dressed like a hobo? A girl’s gotta eat.

  As it happens, there is a bustle of activity going on inside as well as in the drive-through queue. Maybe, we should’ve stayed outside. Wh
at is going on this morning? Are everybody and their mother in the mood for donuts?

  Speaking of mothers…I hear her before I see her. I’d recognize the voice anywhere and it stops me in my tracks. I inhale and exhale then turn around to face the woman who gave birth to me.

  “Shayla!”

  “Hi Mom.”

  My dad peeks his head over her shoulder and smiles at me. “Hey, honey. Happy Sunday.”

  “What are you two doing here? This is the last place I’d expect to see you.”

  My mother wrinkles her nose at me disdainfully. “And it’s likewise the last place you should be too, dear.” Of course. It wouldn’t be an interaction with Vanity Ross without her at least expressing a modicum of criticism for her only daughter.

  Dad interjects, “We’re having our usual Sunday family brunch with the guys and, apparently, John’s girlfriend is partial to Munchkins so we wanted to pick some up to have at the house. You know your mother is the Queen of Hospitality.” He kisses her lightly on the cheek.

  I cringe. I forgot that I told my mom I had a baby shower and couldn’t make brunch today because of it.

  I lied.

  Now, it’s coming back to bite me in the ass. I hadn’t wanted to sacrifice my Dunkin time and I certainly didn’t feel ready for him to meet my family, so I’d made up a whopper and gotten caught. My mother would never let me off the hook.

  “Mom, Dad, this is Dunkin,” I say, hoping my mom will forget my deceit.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. and Mrs. Ross.”

  They shake hands. My mother puts on her most charming smile, tosses her blonde hair flirtatiously, and begins preening herself as if to ready her fifty-five-year-old body for mating. If she was a monkey, her next move would be to display her rump. My mother, ladies and gentlemen, the consummate flirt. I roll my eyes.

  “Well, Dunkin, here we were thinking you were a figment of Shayla’s overactive imagination. I mean, every time we try to meet you, she makes up some lame excuse not to bring you over.”

  “Mom,” I say, my voice assuming the same plaintive pitch which it held throughout my teenage years. I sound like a recalcitrant adolescent.

  “Well, it’s partly my fault,” Dunkin says smoothly, putting an arm around my shoulder. “We’ve so enjoyed falling in love with each other, that all we want to do is be alone together.”

  Maybe his comments would’ve put an end to my mother’s complaints if not for the fact that the weight of his arm on my shoulder caused the fabric of my sweatshirt to shift and become tighter around my tattas. My braless boobs wink obscenely at my mother through the now thinner material.

  Mom blinks rapidly at me, aghast. “Dear God, Shayla, at least put on a bra before you leave the house. It’s indecent.”

  “Oops,” I say, shrugging away from Dunkin and taking a step forward in line.

  “Umm…” Dad says, not knowing what to say. “I think we’re next, dear. Let’s let these kids get back to their donuts. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Dunkin.”

  “Yes, you as well.” Dunkin smiles awkwardly.

  I wrap my arms across my chest protectively. Damn my C cups.

  Before my mother follows my father to the counter, she says pointedly to me, “I do hope you fix yourself up before you go to that baby shower, dear. I mean, you look like a homeless prostitute.”

  After my parents leave and Dunkin and I have procured our morning pastries, as we walk back to his car, hand in hand, I vow, “I’m giving up donuts. See, nothing good can come from eating carbs.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.” He laughs.

  I look at him.

  “Okay, so it was bad,” he admits. “But, my parents are worse.”

  I don’t disagree. I’ve met Dunkin’s parents. On one occasion, I’ve popped naked out of a cake in front of Dunkin’s prim and proper parental units. They make my mother look downright docile.

  I wrap my arms around my boyfriend’s neck and kiss him as he leans down to return my embrace. “How is it that you always know exactly what to say to make me feel better?”

  “You know, I also know exactly what to do to make you feel better…”

  And he does.

  Chapter Two

  “Shayla, this is your mother. Stop screening my calls and call me back as soon as you get this message. Your father and I would like to properly meet that boyfriend of yours, so stop acting like he’s a serial killer and call me back.”

  I cringe. My mother has been leaving messages on both my home phone and cell phone for the past two days and there’s just no more avoiding her.

  I pick up the phone and dial.

  “Well, it’s about time.”

  “Hi Mom. How are you? How was your day?”

  “Don’t get smart with me young lady.”

  I do not point out that, at thirty-one years old, I am not exactly a young lady anymore.

  “What have you been up to?” my mother demands.

  Having sex with my boyfriend, I think.

  “Oh, you know,” I say cryptically. “Life can be busy sometimes.”

  “Too busy to make time for your mother, I guess.”

  “Not at all, Mom. I’m making time for you now.”

  “Well, your father and I would like to take you and Dunkin out to dinner.”

  I highly doubt Dad cares one way or another, but I say, “Okay. What would you like to do and when?”

  “Let’s go to dinner in the city this weekend. I’ll make a reservation and we’ll all get dressed up—especially you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means it might be nice for your boyfriend to see you in something other than jeans and a sweatshirt. And, you know, wearing a bra.”

  “Dunkin sees me in my bra lots of times,” I say.

  “Don’t be fresh.”

  She started it. Why does interacting with my mother make me stoop to juvenile behavior? Sometimes, around her, I feel like I’m operating at the same level of maturity as one of the five-year-olds I teach. I’m a kindergarten teacher, by the way.

  “Okay, Mom. Friday night works for us. You pick the restaurant and let us know what time to be there.”

  We hang up. I slump down on my couch and begin pummeling myself for my spinelessness. Why hadn’t I just said no? Nancy Reagan is probably shaking her head at me disapprovingly at this very moment.

  Chapter Three

  I scrutinize myself in the rearview mirror. I can’t possibly lose ten pounds in time for Friday night dinner with the folks, but, perhaps, I can avoid at least a portion of my mother’s insults by doing something about my face. I can wear makeup and I can address my newly-appeared unibrow. I swear, I’ve been sailing along fine, plucking as-needed, but I suddenly seem to have acquired a scary Freda Khalo-esque brow-bush within the last few days. It’s been too long since I last had my eyebrows waxed and having tamed brows always makes me feel better about myself.

  I usually go to see Li Chen at Rainbow Nails on Germantown Avenue just a mile away from where I live. But, when I arrive at the nail salon, the petite Chinese woman at the desk explains to me in choppy English that Li Chen is out sick.

  “I do your brow,” she proclaims authoritatively.

  Obediently, I follow her into the back room for my waxing.

  “Okay,” she says. “You want thin, yes?”

  “No. Natural.”

  “Yes. No natural.”

  Wait. Does she think I’m saying natural or not natural?

  “Not too thin,” I clarify.

  “Sure. Yes. I make thin for you.”

  “Not too thin.”

  “Yes, yes. I know.”

  But, does she? It is with trepidation that I lean back in my chair and
let her do her thing.

  It is never a good sign when the person waxing your eyebrows says, “Uh-oh.”

  I try not to anticipate the worst. I should’ve waited for Li Chen to recover from her unspecified illness. When I look in the mirror, I see that one eyebrow has been left relatively untouched. It retains its natural arc and shape. Like a trimmed hedge, it has been neatly groomed. The other eyebrow appears to be missing. A pencil-thin line appears where my once-bushy brow had been. I now have lopsided over-eye caterpillars where I used to have a unibrow. I’d kill to have that unibrow back now. It’d be preferable to this. I look like Uncle Leo in Seinfeld when he loses his eyebrows and has to have them drawn on. I’ve been maimed. I am a caricature of my former self.

  “I make even,” the eyebrow lady suggests.

  But, as far as I’m concerned, she’s already done more than enough damage. I pay her and leave.

  An hour later, I sprawl out on my best friend’s couch while he assesses the damage.

  “How bad is it?” I ask.

  “The truth?”

  I nod solemnly.

  “It’s bad. If that woman was a doctor, you could sue for malpractice. As it is, you could probably sue anyway. You look tragic.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “C’mon, Shay.”

  I glower at him. I hate being called Shay and Brice knows it.

  “Shayla, you love me for my honesty.”

  “Honesty. Not brutality. Last month, when you got that bad haircut, I reassured you that it’d grow back and refrained from telling you that you looked like you’d been beat up by a weed wacker.”

  Brice, having the benefit of three and a half weeks of re-growth, laughs. “Point taken.”