Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance (Knitting in the City)

by Penny Reid

  Smirking, he placed one hand on my leg and his other arm along the counter at my side. Leaning close to my ear, his whisper scorching, sending shivers down my spine, he whispered, “When we’re married, I’ll show you the difference between just a kiss and a big, hot, wet kiss…with lots of tongue.”

  CHAPTER 13

  I spent a lot of time in the bathroom over the next two weeks.

  In fact, I started hiding my personal laptop in the cabinet under the sink, and when Quinn would walk around the apartment in only his boxers, I’d excuse myself to the bathroom and read about Lyme disease and the pollination of vanilla flowers in Madagascar.

  I trusted his insistence that he had no plans to seduce me. The problem was that his mere presence was enough for my body to react like a sex-starved sex-fiend who was sex-deprived.

  Other than existing, he was taking it pretty easy on me.

  Or maybe he wasn’t.

  It was hard to tell.

  I didn’t know how to feel about the fact that he wasn’t making seduction overtures. In fact, his lack of overtures might have been worse than overt attempts.

  We kissed every day—but never for very long and never very deeply—and we started wearing pajamas to bed, whereas before, we’d slept naked.

  I was in tank tops and shorts.

  He was in black t-shirts and draw-string cotton pants, Hanes brand. I knew they were Hanes brand since I checked the tag. I don’t know why I checked the tag; maybe because his pajamas felt like my adversary. Regardless, I was a little surprised by his simple choice in PJ’s since he was in the top point zero five percent of the wealth distribution curve.

  Admittedly, I began to feel a measure of spite for the Hanes clothing company. The loss of his nudity was a travesty and part of me—the completely irrational, needing-someone-to-blame part—held them accountable.

  He was also touching me less in general. Fewer hugs, fewer incidental caresses, no more cuddling or spooning in bed.

  Another byproduct of the big wedding was that we seemed to talk about nothing but the wedding. Certainly, at work we talked about work. At home however, we talked about ferns, appetizers, and ribbons.

  Ribbons!

  Before Quinn, the lack of engaging conversation wouldn’t have affected me much.

  But now, I’d grown used to sharing my random facts with him, having him ask me questions, discussing the broader ramifications of the information and how it might be applied to future situations and the interpretation of data.

  Maybe I wasn’t sex-deprived as much as Quinn-deprived, and the lack of quality Quinn time—or Quinnime, which is Quinn + time—was messing with my head.

  After we made the bet, the first two weeks were terrible. We talked often, but I began to feel lonely.

  Marie called me one day out of the blue and offered her services for whatever I needed. She actually helped a great deal. As an artist, she had an eye for color and design that I lacked. She almost made me want to have an opinion about centerpieces, cake toppers, and chair covers.

  I assembled a list of vendors in the Chicago area and left messages for photographers, videographers, caterers, venues, jazz quartets, DJs, and fireworks display professionals.

  Unfortunately, the bad news rolled in immediately.

  My dad didn’t think a visit was a good idea. He said he’d think about coming to the wedding as long as it didn’t interfere with any other plans. This was disheartening, but not a surprise. As well, he said he hadn’t spoken to June, my older sister, since she jumped bail for her latest conviction. Like me, he didn’t know where she was or how to reach her.

  My dad…goodness, I didn’t know what to think about him.

  He wasn’t a bad guy.

  Really, I think about my childhood in terms of my mother. There was never a time where she wasn’t the focus of my dad’s life or ours. Before she died and after she died, she was the alpha and omega, the zeta and tri-delta.

  Actually, she was literally a tri-delta. She was in the sorority when she met my father, and he was a humble mechanical engineering student. I’m pretty convinced that my oldest sister, June, and my youngest sister, Jem, both have a different father. There’s also a high chance that my father is some anonymous, unknown sperm donor.

  Regardless, my dad never turned my mother away. He paid for our daycare, dropped us off, and picked us up every day. He may not have tucked us in at night or made any attempt to calm us when we had nightmares, but he did put a roof over our heads and food in our mouths.

  When we weren’t spending weekends with my mother’s mother, a pill-popping head case as well as a former beauty queen, we were running amuck around the neighborhood.

  Now my relationship with my dad consists of him sending me email forwards, mostly jokes or chain mail or both, along with fifty other people on the To: line. The few times each year that I call him, he seems confused at first as to who I am. Then he seems confused as to why I’ve called.

  Therefore, the call I made to him went accordingly.

  The other bad news about the wedding was that almost every place in Chicago was already booked; I was forced to move down the lists to my third, sixth, and tenth choices. It was extremely stressful—which was satisfying as an outcome—and I spent a good amount of time with Quinn lamenting my inability to secure any meaningful part of the event.

  Compounding matters, I couldn’t send out the invitations because I couldn’t finalize the reception location. This meant I would have to find a printer for the invitations who would be able to turn them around in two days or less, which was basically impossible.

  Therefore, when Sandra insisted on taking over all activities relating to my bachelorette party, I gave in immediately and allowed her to do so. I then promptly forgot about it, figured she was bossy enough that I could trust her to tell me what to do, where to go, and when to be there.

  Additionally, I wasn’t sure how to feel about Quinn’s parents. I did feel a good deal of guilt that I’d pushed him into the visit. My mind didn’t like feeling guilt, so it wandered to less uncomfortable topics—like what class of plastics corresponded to each recycling number.

  Katherine continued to be lovely and gracious and even funny during our phone conversations. Desmond Sr., Quinn’s dad and his brother’s namesake, surprised me by joining our third call. He said almost nothing while Katherine and I discussed the difference between plastics denoted with the number 1 (PET—Polyethylene Terephthalate) and plastics denoted with the number 2 (HDPE—High Density Polyethylene).

  But then, at the very end of the call, he said in a voice that sounded eerily similar to Quinn’s, but with a much thicker Boston accent, “We’re really looking forward to seeing you Saturday.”

  I hung up feeling dazed and confused and maybe a little overwhelmed by what I’d initiated.

  Everything was set and scheduled for our trip to Boston. But as the time approached, I couldn’t help but wonder if my insistence on meeting his parents had more to do with my wanting non-ambivalent parental figures in my life—most especially a maternal figure—or that I honestly wanted what was best for Quinn.

  Signs of my distractedness and physical-and-intellectual-intimacy-Quinn-starved-addled-brain-disease presented at knit night just a few days before we were set to leave for Boston.

  We were all gathered at the apartment I technically shared with Elizabeth, but she hadn’t arrived yet.

  I thought I was covering pretty well. I even made margaritas for everyone, and they were good margaritas. I credited the addition of Limoncello and agave nectar.

  Marie was discussing the wedding plans and lamenting our inability to secure a venue.

  “Can’t Quinn help?” Sandra asked, “He does security for all those fancy places, like that club where he rescued you.”

  I smoothed out the wrinkles of the Wonder Woman apron I was wearing. “I didn’t want to ask him to do that.”

  “Why not? It’s his wedding too,” Fiona pointed out and sipped her marg
arita. “You should ask him to help. Men like to help.”

  I thought about how his eyes glazed over every time I asked him for an opinion on floral arrangements or main course options. It was a mere three weeks since our engagement, and I dreaded every discussion he and I had to make about the wedding.

  I sighed. “I don’t know….”

  “You can do it, Janie!” Sandra shouted before gulping some of Kat’s drink. Kat was distracted, but I noticed. “Start this way—here, watch me—pretend I’m you.” She cleared her throat and fluttered her lashes. “Oh, Quinn, I am existentially flubbered.”

  “I don’t think flubbered is a word,” Ashley interjected.

  “Yes it is. It’s flustered and befuddled.”

  “Wouldn’t that be fluddled?”

  “Shh, you’re messing me up.” Sandra frowned at Ashley’s interference and turned her attention back to me. “What do you call each other? What are your pet names? Dearest? Turtledove? Thor? Herr Handsome of my heart? Lizard of my labia? Captain of my clitoris?”

  I rolled my lips between my teeth, but it was no good. We all burst out laughing.

  “Lizard of my labia? What the heck?” Kat chuckled and reached for her drink. Still, she didn’t notice that one third of it was depleted let alone that Sandra was the culprit.

  “You know, lizards and their tongues flicking.” Sandra glanced around the room. “I think it’s a nice term of endearment.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “No, I do not call him that. Other than Sir McHotpants, which I rarely use and only to illustrate a modification in his mood, I don’t have a pet name for him.”

  Sandra frowned. “Not even in bed? Not even when the two of you are going at it? Not even baby?”

  To be certain, I thought back over our times of physical intimacy. “No. We don’t talk much during sex.”

  Sandra’s mouth fell open. “You don’t talk during sex? You don’t dirty talk? Like, at all?”

  I shook my head. “No. Not really. Before, during foreplay, I might quote a few interesting and relevant studies relating to arousal or stamina. But we’re both mostly silent during the act.” I nibbled my top lip. “Sometimes he’ll say move or bend over or some other instruction regarding the placement of my body, but nothing like a term of endearment. Recently he told me what to say while we were engaged in the act—or rather, he made requests.”

  “Like what?” Sandra looked confused. “Like dirty requests? A la, ‘Tell me how much you want my big co….’”

  “Sandra! I think we all get your point.” Fiona exchanged a look with Sandra then peered at me before speaking. “You don’t have to answer her questions, Janie.”

  “No, it’s ok. Quinn said stuff like, ‘Tell me you love me.’”

  “Aw…that’s sweet.” Fiona smiled at me approvingly. “That’s not dirty talk, that’s lovely bedroom talk.”

  “Thanks.” I returned her smile. “I have limited experience so, to be honest, I’m not sure what is considered normal. This conversation is actually quite helpful and—if all of you are comfortable with the topic—will allow me to gather data on what kinds of things are said in the bedroom between normal, well-adjusted adults.”

  “I don’t mind,” Ashley chimed in. “I’m ok with dirty talk in the bedroom—to a point. For example,” she glanced upward, setting her knitting on her knee and seemed to search the bookshelf behind Fiona for the right memory. “This one time, in college, my boyfriend started calling me a whore while I was…well, you know, fellatiating.”

  “Fellatiating?” Sandra made a confused face.

  “The art of administering fellatio,” Ashley clarified.

  “Ah…continue.”

  “And it was a complete turn-off. I feel like, with that kind of stuff, the girl has to invite it. Like, I need to be the one to say, ‘Call me a ho!’ or else it feels degrading.”

  “I agree.” Sandra nodded. “I mean, I’d never say to a guy while he’s savoring my goods, ‘You’re a slut!’ Right? That’s not okay.”

  “What else do people say during sex that’s considered dirty talk?” I asked. “Other than calling each other names, I mean.” I wondered if they’d think it was very strange of me to take out a piece of paper and jot down some notes.

  There was a pause while they all considered the question.

  Surprisingly, Marie was the first to respond. “I don’t have much experience either. But the guy I was with before David was always asking me if I liked what he was doing, but not as though he really wanted to know—not a survey—more like,” she paused, then lowered her voice to imitate a man, “You like that, dontcha? You like it when I do that, dontcha? You want it all the time, dontcha?”

  “Hmm….” Sandra nodded thoughtfully. “I was with a guy who did that. He seemed to need a lot of praise to sustain an erection, so I figured out quickly that it was a good idea to say, “Yes! Yes! God, yes! Don’t stop!”

  We all chuckled a little at Sandra’s theatrics, and Fiona turned her smiling eyes to me. “Dirty talk in the bedroom can be fun, especially if you’re with someone you love and who loves you. Don’t be afraid of sounding weird or turning him off. Believe me, anything you say or do—as long as it’s unselfish and about bringing pleasure to both of you—is good.”

  “Look at you, Ms. Sex Therapist.” Marie winked at Fiona. “You and Greg are the cutest coupled; of course you guys have everything figured out.”

  Fiona turned her attention to her work in progress. “No one has everything figured out.”

  “Any chance you can make more of those margaritas?” Ashley smiled at me over her empty glass. “They’re amazing, Janie.”

  I nodded and stood. I was the only one who didn’t knit; therefore, I enjoyed being the bartender. “No problem. I’ll be right back.”

  Distractedly, absorbing this information, I walked back to the kitchen and began mixing another batch.

  I decided that I wanted Quinn to have a pet name for me. I heard some commotion from the living room, but only peripherally as I was caught up in the idea. Suddenly it felt very important, and I began listing then rejecting possibilities.

  I was still tallying and assessing my preference for different terms of endearment when I walked from the kitchen and found that the commotion was Elizabeth’s arrival. I smiled when I saw her, because I missed her and she was one of my most favorite people in the world—definitely in the top three.

  I lifted one of the margaritas I was holding. “Do you want a margarita? I’m making them with Limoncello and Petron.”

  “Yes. I will have margaritas.” She returned my smile. It was good to see her smile. Usually, at least when I saw her, she was walking around half asleep from exhaustion.

  Even though she was my best friend, I would never ask her to help with the wedding. In fact, when she’d offered weeks ago, I told her absolutely not.

  She never got enough sleep, was always picking up extra shifts at the hospital. Helping with my wedding—a wedding I was only planning in order to manufacture stress—was out of the question. She didn’t need more stress. She needed rest.

  “Okay, two more coming right up.” I nodded, passing a glass to Ashley and the other to Sandra. I hoped it would keep Sandra from sneaking any more sips from Kat’s beverage.

  I was happy to resume my drink mixing as it gave me more time to consider endearment terms. Honestly, I couldn’t think of many that didn’t sound creepy or that didn’t convey inappropriate connotations if examined closely. My problem, as ever, was that I examined most trivial things too closely and most important things not at all.

  When I again emerged from the kitchen, the ladies were discussing one of Elizabeth’s hospital pranks and the ramifications of her poor decision making. I thought her pranks were funny, but most likely a way to keep others at arm’s length.

  Someone mentioned something about wrinkles just as I was mulling over the possibility of dog breeds as potential endearment terms.

  Therefore, I felt it approp
riate to volunteer, “Several breeds of dogs have wrinkles, like the Pug and Shar Pei.” I sipped my margarita and licked at the excess salt on the rim.

  No one responded for a moment, and I dismissed the idea of Quinn calling me Pug as a sign of his love and devotion.

  “Janie, your left-fielding skills are very impressive. You are the most impressive left fielder I’ve ever met.” Sandra said this as she sneaked another sip of Kat’s drink.

  I frowned. “You mean the baseball position?” I sat back in my chair, wondering if I could somehow turn left fielding, or another baseball position, into a pet name. “I’ve never played baseball.”

  “No, hun. I’m talking about someone who says stuff out of left field. I never know what you’re going to say or where you’re going to take me. I’m just happy to be along for the ride.” Sandra blew me a kiss. I liked it when she demonstrated overt signs of affection. She was a big cuddler and always seemed to want everyone to feel good.

  I thought about this impulse of Sandra’s as the conversation continued. She was a romantic and would likely be a good source of ideas for pet names, especially if I instructed her to take the assignment seriously. I was pondering how to get her alone to solicit some ideas when Sandra swiped Kat’s margarita and was caught.

  “It’s okay,” I said to Kat’s outraged expression. “I’ll make some more and bring out a pitcher.” I stood and reached for Sandra’s empty glass. “But since Sandra is being greedy, she has to come and help me.”

  Sandra stood. “Fine. It’s a fair punishment.”

  “I’ll come too,” Elizabeth volunteered and began bundling her hand-knits into a ball.

  My heart both sank and lifted. It sank because I couldn’t ask Sandra about terms of endearment in front of Elizabeth. Elizabeth would likely want me to call Quinn something that referenced his domineering tendencies. However, I was happy to have her along because she was lovely and one of my aforementioned favorite people.

  “I love this kitchen.” Sandra’s voice from behind me sounded wistful. “It’s a kitchen for cooking.”