Braced on my hands, I looked down at her. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just…don’t want to let go yet.”
“Then don’t.” I kissed her forehead. “Then don’t.”
Eighteen
JAIME
Three days later, I met Claire and Margot for cocktails and oysters at Rockefeller’s for our weekly GNO. We were sitting at the bar, listening to the live piano music and waiting for our drinks, when Claire pounded her fist like a gavel.
“OK, that’s all the time I’m giving you. Tell us what’s going on with you and Quinn.”
“Well, we’re…talking.” I tucked my hair behind my ears.
“Just talking?” From the other side of Claire, Margot eyed me suspiciously.
“OK, talking and fucking,” I conceded. “But talking is a big step for me.”
Claire laughed and clapped her hands. “It is. We’re very proud of you for talking.”
“What are you talking about?” Margot asked as our martinis arrived—gin for Margot, Cosmo for Claire, vodka for me (dirty, of course).
“Different things.” I sipped my drink. “We actually talk quite a bit about his mom. He misses her a lot. I think he likes talking about her with someone who knew her from before she got sick.”
“That’s sweet,” said Margot.
“It is. He’s actually much sweeter than I thought.” I tried to say this casually, but I didn’t miss the look my friends exchanged. “What?” I said in self-defense.
“Nothing, don’t get your panties in a twist.” Claire patted my shoulder. “We were saying as much to each other yesterday, that we think he’s funny and sweet and would be really good for you if you’d give him a chance.”
“Too bad he’s so unattractive,” Margot quipped.
“I know, right?” I shook my head. “I keep thinking about that. He could have anyone. What’s wrong with him that he wants me?”
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” said Claire, who rarely cursed. “You’re hot, he’s hot. There’s chemistry. That’s that.”
I sipped my martini and listened to the pianist play “Let It Be,” which we’d heard Sunday night as we made the pierogies. Quinn had sung along to it. “You know what? He’d like this place. I should bring him here sometime.”
“You should,” Margot said. “We could have dinner at the restaurant. Tripp and I, you and Quinn, Claire and—”
“Don’t.” Claire put up a hand. “No more set-ups. I will meet someone somewhere on my own; I can’t handle the disappointment anymore. You guys go. I’ll stay home with my Kindle and my cat. They never disappoint.”
I tipped my head onto Claire’s shoulder for a second, feeling sort of guilty that Quinn had landed in my lap after all this time. I hadn’t even been looking to date someone—in fact, I’d been looking to avoid it. It didn’t seem fair.
“So the talking is going well, then,” Margot encouraged, her tone telling me she wanted more.
“Yes. I mean, it’s only been three days, but…” I inhaled and exhaled. “I am cautiously optimistic I can handle what he wants from me at this point.”
“Which is what?”
“He hasn’t said, exactly, but I think it’s just sex and conversation at the end of the day. He doesn’t call or text me—actually, he hasn’t even asked for my number, which is perfectly fine with me—and honestly, it’s been me knocking on his door the last three nights.” This last fact was a tad worrisome when I let myself think about it too much, but I told myself it was OK because A) sex with Quinn was really good, so who wouldn’t knock on his door, and B) he was leaving for New York tomorrow for six days. We’d have a break then.
“I’m happy for you,” Claire said, lifting her Cosmo to her lips. “Sex and conversation sounds great.”
It was pretty great. So great I knocked on his door for the fourth night in a row when I got home from GNO, even though it was almost eleven.
He answered it wearing black athletic pants and no shirt. The bare chest and warm smile he gave me made my insides flutter, which was a feeling I was learning to appreciate.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a little scratchy. “I thought it was girls’ night.”
Suddenly I noticed his apartment was dark behind him and realized he’d probably been in bed already, which got me all flustered. “It was, and I swear I was just going to go upstairs and go to bed because it’s so late, but then I was thinking about you because I heard this song tonight that reminded me of you, and I thought about how I’d like to go to this place with you sometime because they play this old-school music, but I really shouldn’t have knocked because it’s so late and I know you have an early flight tomorrow, so I should let you go back to sleep, really sorry to wake you and—”
But then I couldn’t babble anymore because he’d grabbed my head and pressed his lips to mine.
“I’m glad you’re here.” He moved backward, pulling me into his flat with his hands on either side of my face. “You should stay a while.”
“Well,” I mumbled against his lips, kicking the door shut behind me. “If you insist.”
After a sweaty bout of me-on-top sex, we fell asleep, and I woke up around two. Silently, I crept out of bed and gathered my clothes, not bothering to put them all on, just my underwear and top. With the rest gathered in my arms, I couldn’t resist giving Quinn a quick kiss on the shoulder.
“Hey,” he said groggily. “You leaving?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Sorry to wake you. Have a good trip, OK?”
“OK. Hey, can you leave your number for me?”
“Sure. I’ll put it on the kitchen counter.”
“Thanks.” He was already drifting back to sleep when I left the room.
I missed him way more than I should have while he was gone, considering we’d only been “fucking and talking” for less than a week. But the house seemed so empty knowing that he wasn’t there, which was ridiculous since I’d been living there for two months before that with no one in the downstairs flat.
He texted me every day, but it wasn’t annoying. Just once or twice to say hi or send me a picture of something cool on the street or one of his ridiculous selfies. I confess, I stalked his Instagram relentlessly. One day he posted a pic of me I’d had no idea he’d taken—it was in his kitchen the day we made the pierogies. He’d snapped it from the side, catching me in profile, grinning happily as I tried to work with the misshapen lump of dough in my hands. Miss this girl, he’d captioned it.
There was just one hashtag: #sweetpea.
I rolled my eyes, but inside my chest, my heart was pounding.
Late Wednesday afternoon, the day he was scheduled to return, he called me. I let it ring a few times, even though I was totally anxious to hear his voice.
“Hello?”
“Hey, you.”
“Hi.” A stupid grin took over my mouth before I could help it, and I huddled down inside my cubicle.
“How’s everything?”
“Good. How are you?”
“Great. Ready to get out of here. My flight gets in around five tonight. Can I take you out for dinner later?”
I almost said yes right away, but then I remembered standing Wednesday GNO. For a second I thought about faking an illness, but it would not be cool to bail on my girls for a guy. We just didn’t do that. “I can’t tonight. It’s Wednesday.”
“Oh, that’s right. Girls’ Night Out.” He sounded more amused than disappointed. “How about tomorrow?”
“That works.” But did that mean I wouldn’t get to see him tonight?
“OK, I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Have fun tonight.”
“Thanks. Safe travels.”
After the phone call, I found myself in a foul mood for no good reason. I was mad at myself for resenting GNO when I’d been the one in the past to insist we honor the date no matter what, and I was angry that Quinn hadn’t sounded sad about not seeing me tonight. I’d missed that asshole. I actually co
uldn’t wait to see him again, and I never felt like that about a guy. Did he not feel the same?
You see? This is why getting close to someone sucks. It’s a constant guessing game in which it’s impossible to keep the upper hand. Someone is always disappointed, and right now it’s you. Get a fucking grip.
But I stayed grouchy through the rest of the work day and didn’t even bother to go home and change before meeting Claire and Margot, because I didn’t want to take the chance of running into him. First, I wanted him to think I didn’t care that much about seeing him tonight, and second, I didn’t trust myself not to ditch the girls and rip his clothes off the moment I saw his face.
It was Margot’s turn to pick the spot, and she chose Marais, an upscale French restaurant in Grosse Pointe with an elegant bar and lounge that wasn’t exactly formal, but still likely to be full of crusty people like Tripp in coats and ties. I did like the cheese selection, though, which they wheeled out on a cart and gushed over before slicing portions onto a plate for you. I didn’t give a shit about artisanal goats, but I had to admit it was all pretty tasty, served with bread and crackers and honey. They had a great wine list too.
I forgot all about my bad mood when I entered the bar and saw my friends sitting next to each other in a huge velvet booth, Margot visibly upset and Claire’s hand on her arm.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, sliding onto the bench across from them.
“It’s nothing,” Margot said, fighting for composure. “A fight with Tripp.”
“About what?”
“You’ll think it’s dumb.”
“Margot, no, I won’t.” I sat forward with my elbows on my knees, leaning toward her. “Talk to me.”
She sniffed and pulled a handkerchief out of her purse. Claire and I exchanged a surreptitious smile—Margot was the only woman we knew who actually carried little white hankies in her purse, monogrammed with her initials. We sometimes teased her about stuff like that, but this wasn’t the time.
“It’s just—I thought we were really getting closer to an engagement. He’s dropped hints here and there, and he knows it’s what I want. He even asked me before Christmas about what sort of ring I’d like, so I thought maybe it would be a Christmas gift. But it wasn’t.”
“What did he get you again?” Claire asked.
“A Chanel bag and some earrings from Tiffany.” Only Margot could make those gifts sound like a disappointment.
“How dare he,” I teased, trying to make her smile.
She did, but barely. “I’m sorry, you guys. I sound like a spoiled brat, pouting because I didn’t get exactly what I wanted when I wanted it.”
“You’re allowed to be disappointed. It’s OK,” Claire said, rubbing her shoulder. “You guys have been together for a while, and it’s only natural for you to be excited about taking the next step.”
God, Claire was such a nicer person than I was. All I could think was, See? This is what happens when you give someone the power to make you happy—they can use it to let you down, too.
“I just don’t understand why he’s dragging his feet,” Margot went on, dabbing at her eyes. “He says he loves me. He’s good to me. My family adores him; his family adores me. We come from the same world, have the same values, want the same things for our future.”
Babies with little whale pajamas? I thought before I could help it.
“Well, what happened today?” Claire asked.
“It was last night, actually. I was being passive-aggressive and made a comment about being so old on my wedding day my dad would have to wheel me up the aisle, and he got defensive.” Margot shook her head. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have poked at him.”
“I don’t think you were wrong to want to know where things stand, though, Margot,” I told her. “He should be up front with you. But rather than hint around, can’t you ask him flat out what he’s thinking? Or tell him what you’re thinking? That’s not issuing an ultimatum. It’s just being honest.”
“But I’m scared,” she said. “What if his answer isn’t what I want to hear?”
I shook my head—this made no sense to me. Did she want to be deceived? “Why wouldn’t you want to hear the truth?”
“Because it might hurt.” She shrugged helplessly. “What if he doesn’t want me to be his wife, and I just wasted the last three years of my life? What if he tells me I’m not the one? What if he doesn’t think I’m good enough?”
“Then he’d be a total fucking idiot,” I snapped, angry at the thought. “He’ll never do better than you.”
I wasn’t even blowing smoke up her ass, it was totally true. Besides being smart, fun, and generous, Margot had the cool, aristocratic beauty of a Grace Kelly or a Hitchcock blonde. Sure, she’d grown up in a home with an elevator and a private French tutor, and she could be a bit clueless about the ninety-nine percent (the first day we met in ninth grade, she asked me in all earnestness where I boarded my horse), but she made fun of herself all the time. Sometimes she texted Claire and me things like, When a sommelier tries to substitute the 88 Bordeaux for the 89. Please. #MargotProblems
“I agree,” Claire said firmly. “I think he does want to marry you, and he’s just being a guy and putting off settling down. Try what Jaime said—talk to him openly about it.”
Margot touched the hankie to her nose once more just as a waiter appeared at our table.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“We’ll have the charcuterie and fromage,” said Margot, suddenly all poise and confidence, back straight. Letting a stranger see her upset was not her style. “And I’ll have a glass of riesling.”
But after we’d ordered and the waiter left, Margot’s spine curled and she looked distraught again. “OK, I’ll do it. I’ll talk to him. Maybe this weekend.”
“Good girl,” I said. Personally, I thought Margot could do a hundred times better than Tripp and didn’t understand the rush to get married anyway, but if she had her heart set on it, I’d support her. It was sad to me, though, that my gorgeous, classy, normally confident friend was letting a man dictate her self-worth.
That’s what happens when women fall in love, though. They lose themselves. They lose perspective. They lose control over their own happiness.
Thank God I was smart enough to know it.
This arrangement with Quinn was really the best—I had all the perks of being in a couple and none of the heartache…as long as I kept my cool, I’d be OK.
For that reason, I did not check my phone even once to see if he’d texted.
I left Marais around ten, and his car was on the street when I arrived home. Just go upstairs, I told myself as I hurried up the walk. Do not stop, do not knock, do not check your phone.
I was unlocking the front door when he pulled it open. “Hey, you!” He threw his arms around me, pulling me inside, just like he had the day he moved in. “I saw you pull up. Did you get my text?”
“No,” I said, disturbed by the way my pulse was racing. “When did you send it?”
“I don’t know, maybe an hour ago. I kept telling myself not to bug you on girls’ night, but then I couldn’t resist.” He took my wrists, tugged on them playfully. “I missed your face.”
“Just my face?” I made a joke while I tried to get my bearings. If I let him know how happy I was to see him, to know that he’d texted, that was bad, right?
“Maybe I missed a few other parts of you.”
“My brain, no doubt. My dazzling intellect. My sharp wit.”
His eyes flicked left. “Yeah, let’s go with that.”
“Thanks.”
“So would your intellect be available right now for, um, a consultation? See, I have this really hard…decision to make, and I think some heated discussion might help me…penetrate the issue. Gain some insight.”
“Really. You have a hard decision.”
He nodded. “So hard it’s painful.”
I smiled, feeling like I was on familiar ground again. Sex and game
s I could handle. “Well, I can’t leave a friend with such a pressing problem. Want to come upstairs for a pow-wow? I’ll try my best to wrap my intellect around your predicament.”
He slipped an arm around my waist, the other around my neck, and kissed me hard. “My predicament would be delighted to come upstairs, downstairs, or anywhere else you want it to.”
“So, did you miss me? You haven’t said.” Quinn turned onto his side and propped his head on his elbow.
I was stretched out on my back next to him. We’d just finished round two, during which I’d executed the Wheelbarrow and the Reverse Cowgirl, so I was winded as hell. (We’d been so impatient for round one, it had happened on the stairs with zero finesse from either one of us, although I’d probably have a bruise on my tailbone tomorrow.)
“I may have thought about you once or twice,” I teased.
“Once or twice, huh?”
I shrugged. “I don’t want you to get a big head or anything.”
He sat up. “Liar. You love when I get a big head. Be right back.”
Giggling, I sat up and hit him with my pillow as he got out of bed. “Jerk.”
He went into the guest bathroom like he always did, and I went into mine, thankful for the way he respected my need for space after sex. A lot of guys would have just used mine because it was closer. Quinn was considerate like that.
After using the bathroom, I took my pill and brushed my teeth. Believe it or not, I was actually contemplating asking him to stay the night, but when I came out of the bathroom, he wasn’t back in my room. The hall light was on, so I threw on a T-shirt and went out to the living room, where a shirtless Quinn was tugging on his jeans.
“Had to find my pants,” he said, his hair messy and flopping in his face. He pushed it back. “The rest of my clothes are still down there, but I brought yours up. They’re on the couch.”
“Thanks.” I stood there for a second, arms crossed, not wanting him to leave but not certain asking him to stay was right, either.
“It’s late, I better go. See you tomorrow.” He came over to me and kissed my cheek, and a moment later, he was gone.
Man Candy Page 13