The Modern Gentleman

by Quinn, Meghan

Ugh, see why he’s perfect? What guy tells a girl that their first sexual experience meant a lot to them?

  Usually it’s a “Fuck, that was amazing.”

  Or a “That was so hot.”

  Maybe “You made my dick so wet last night,” for the dirty talkers.

  But “Last night meant a lot to me”? That’s what you read in stories and watch in movies, that’s not real life. At least it’s not for other people.

  It seems to be for Wes.

  He leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead, his lips lingering, and even though I’m not a morning person, his words, his gentle caresses, they wake me up, turn my insides into goo, and cause me to swoon like a damsel in distress.

  “It meant a lot to me too,” I answer, because it did.

  I love him.

  So much.

  He’s so much more than I ever thought I could find in a man. He makes me laugh constantly. He shows great humility but never lets it cloud his judgment or ruin our time together. His attention to detail like walking next to the street when we’re making our way through the city, his hand pressed to my lower back, or his thoughtfulness when it comes to the little things like where he takes me out on a date. His patience and understanding are greater than any I’ve ever experienced. And his ability to make me feel cherished is beyond compare.

  I like him as a man.

  Adore him as a friend.

  Love him as mine.

  Simple as that.

  He smiles down at me and exhales. “You’re giving me all kinds of feels, June.” He kisses me one last time and then says, “Got to get in the shower.”

  “Hey, I forgot to ask you something last night.”

  “What’s that?” he asks, his smile contagious.

  “The company is getting together next Friday at Chuck’s Diner for a pre-production dinner. We’re allowed to bring a guest and since I know you play basketball some nights, I figured I’d try to get on your schedule early.”

  He chuckles and says, “June, I’d clear my schedule for you. Next Friday? It’s a date.” He plants one more kiss on my lips and then, naked as the day he was born, he hops out of bed. I watch his tight and firm backside walk into the bathroom, reminding me just how lucky I am.

  He keeps the door to the bathroom partially open so the light filters into the room. I’m sure he doesn’t do it on purpose, but with the light streaming in and the roar of emotions pulsing through me, there is no going back to sleep for me, so instead, I reach for my phone on his nightstand that he so sweetly charged for me last night.

  When it comes to life, there are a few text messages from the chorus line text thread. I’m still getting used to all the craziness of having people be able to reach me at the tip of their fingers, so when I open the thread, I’m fairly overwhelmed.

  I scroll to the start of the most recent from last night and see that it’s from Charlie, one of the guys who is sleeping with the director.

  Charlie: Did anyone see yesterday’s installment from The Modern Gentleman? I just about peed myself. [Link]

  Rebecca: Oh my God, I know. The poor guy. I don’t want to know what a contusion to the nutsac looks like.

  I pause, scrub my eyes.

  Wait, what?

  I sit up and rest my back against the bed, my muscles aching from last night’s activities and rehearsals.

  Patricia: With a shuffleboard stick nonetheless. I almost threw up reading it.

  There’s no way.

  Kurt: Wait, June, didn’t you puncture your boyfriend the first time you went out? Sounds oddly familiar.

  Rebecca: That’s where I heard the story from. OMG, is your boyfriend The Modern Gentleman?

  What the hell is The Modern Gentleman?

  Glancing toward the bathroom door, I hear him in the shower. Confused, tired, and not in the mood for any of this, I’m about to exit out of the text thread when I glance at the link again.

  A contusion to the testicles by a shuffleboard tang. That is way too coincidental.

  Wes is a writer for an online website. Could it be?

  Before I can stop myself, I click on the link. Maybe he is The Modern Gentleman fella and he’s putting himself out there about our first date. Kind of noble if you think about it, admitting to getting taken out by your date the first time you go out.

  The article comes up and my eyes quickly fall to the source.

  HYPE

  Written by The Modern Gentleman. No picture, no second name. I glance over the title and see that the article is being written in “Episodes.” Under the title is a quick blurb.

  Our very own modern gentleman has set out onto the streets of New York to show all you gents out there that securing a girl isn’t as hard as it seems. Follow his step-by-step outline in wooing, charming, and securing a girl The Modern Gentleman way through real-life examples. That’s right, our modern gentleman is here to show you just how easy it is as he takes his practices to real life. Watch and learn, gents.

  What?

  I blink some more.

  No, there is no way this is Wes. He wouldn’t . . . do that, would he?

  Use me as a test subject?

  Not possible.

  I look away, setting my phone on my lap. The water stops and I hear his shower door creak, as a wave of anxiety hits me.

  I pick my phone back up and go to episode one, and when I read the title, my heart seizes in my chest.

  We Met Over Dog Poop.

  Subtitle: You read that right, dog poop, but see how I turn a crappy situation into a dating opportunity.

  No.

  No, this can’t be happening.

  I scan the article, unflattering tales of our walks fly through my head, the way he tackled each situation with The Modern Gentleman techniques. I skim through the rest of the episodes, my relationship with Wes unfolding in front of me, but told from a completely different perspective.

  Clinical almost.

  Scientific.

  Follow these steps, get this result. See, it worked for me?

  It’s all been for an article, every last minute of it.

  And what was last night?

  How to finally get laid? What to say the next morning to make the girl fall head over heels for you?

  All the things he’s said to me feel calculated now. Weightless. Without substance.

  A wave of nausea rolls through my stomach as I spring from the bed and quickly get dressed. I’m in the midst of gathering my things when Wes comes through the bathroom door, wearing nothing but a low-slung black towel around his waist.

  “Hey, headed out so soon? I was going to make us some breakfast.”

  “Oh, is that so?” I ask, standing tall, pushing my hair out of my face. “What step in the process would that be?”

  “What?” he asks, a crinkle to his brow.

  “The Modern Gentleman process, Wes.” His face falls, and that right there tells me everything I need to know.

  “June, it’s not what you think.”

  “Oh, I’m sure.” I sardonically laugh and go to his entryway, where I find my shoes and quickly slip them on.

  “June, wait, let me explain.”

  “I’m pretty sure I already know the answer, but I figure I should ask anyway.” I turn to face him. “Are you The Modern Gentleman?”

  He pulls on his wet hair, his bicep flexing tightly as he strains. “Yes,” he answers, looking me straight in the eyes.

  “Wow. Okay.” I choke back the tears that want to fall, the emotion clogging my throat.

  “But you have to understand, June, that’s all a persona.”

  “Really? From what I briefly read, it seems like all the things you’re telling your readers to do, your equation to scoring the girl, are the things you used on me.”

  “Yeah, that looks bad.” He scratches the back of his neck. “But it was never an equation for me with you, June. Hell, you are such a wild card, you made me feel completely out of my element.”

  “So I wasn’t the t
ypical girl you usually fool with your charm? Well, I’m glad I could offer you a challenge this go-around.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” he says, growing frustrated.

  “Okay, tell me this, did you or did you not ask me out because it was an assignment for your job?”

  He winces. “At first, yes.”

  “And that’s all I need to know.” I grab my purse, and he quickly comes after me, grabbing my arm.

  “June, please, I was going to tell you last night. I was, but then you—”

  “Don’t you dare blame your inadequacies of being an honest man on me. It is not my fault you apparently don’t carry a conscience bone in your body, that’s yours.”

  “My boss threatened to fire me,” he says in panic. “I didn’t tell you at first because I couldn’t afford to be replaced.”

  “Ah, so your ethics are questionable as well. Good to know.”

  “June, don’t leave, please just let me—”

  “Explain?” I finish for him. “Don’t bother. I have all the information I need from you.” I shake my head. “I can’t believe I fell for you.” My voice catches in my throat and he takes a step forward, but I hold my hand out, stopping him. Looking him in the eye, I say, “I expected so much more from you, Wes. Then again, I guess I was expecting excellence from someone I guess I don’t even know.”

  “That’s not true.” He presses his hand to his chest. “I’m the same person, June. Nothing has changed between us. Everything we experienced, it was real. It’s all real.”

  “It was real to me, Wes. It was a project to you. I was only a project.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You weren’t a project to me. Not even from the first moment I met you. You were never a project. You have to believe me, June.”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” I say, gripping the door to this apartment. “This is over, Wes. Maybe when you write your final episode, you can inform readers that being truthful and honest might have saved this relationship, that instead you chose to be a dumbass and hide it from me. Maybe you’re not as smart as I thought you were.”

  “June, wait,” he calls out as I open the door.

  I pause, look over my shoulder and say, “Wes, please do us both a favor and crawl up your barely healed scrotum and drown in your sperm.” His look of shock does nothing to make my broken heart feel remotely better. Before I leave, I say, “Don’t try contacting me. I’m not going to answer.”

  With that, I flee his apartment, my heart in my throat, tears tickling my eyes, and a trail of embarrassment and regret following behind me.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  I’d thought going slow would keep my heart out of the equation. I’d thought the pace Wes accepted was because to him, I was worth the wait.

  But no. Going slow gave him more fodder for his article.

  For his experiment.

  For his job.

  I knew he was too good to be true.

  I just knew it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dear Modern Gentleman,

  I messed up. Big time. Without getting into details, I totally blew it with my girl. I neglected to tell her something and she found out. It was stupid and I’m kicking myself in the ass for not being open and honest with her. I know that’s what you harp about constantly. I’m at a loss. I love her and I need her back in my life, but I have no idea how to go about earning her trust again. Any suggestions?

  Dumbass

  Dear Dumbass,

  My suggestion to you: go back in time and make the right choice.

  You’re screwed.

  Good luck, Gent,

  The Modern Gentleman

  WES

  THE GROVEL

  “There he is, the man of the hour. I have some good news—” Frank pauses in the door to my office. “What’s, uh . . . what’s going on here?” He bends at the knees slightly to take me in at a different angle. “Are you crying?”

  Yup. I am.

  I’m crying.

  I’m crying like a goddamn baby and I can’t seem to stop it.

  The only thing that’s different from yesterday to today? I’m showered, wearing a suit, and I ditched the scarf and lady drink. But I’m still very much a broken man inside.

  And yes, I know, I did this to myself. I see the neon sign that says “dumbass,” with an arrow pointing over my head. I’m well aware the mistakes I made are why I’m in this situation. I’m not looking for pity, I’m just telling it like it is.

  My chest hurts.

  My body aches.

  My head feels like it’s about to explode.

  And all I want is to cuddle into my girl, smell her hair, and hold her boob.

  Is that too much to ask?

  A simple palm to breast to soothe my aching soul?

  I wipe my eyes and move some papers around on my desk. “What’s up, Frank?”

  He doesn’t step into my office, but instead stays in the doorway, gripping it with both hands, as if he’s holding on, waiting for someone to dislodge him from the hell he unsuspectingly stepped into.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “Allergies,” I sniffle, trying to get my mind to stop thinking about June and all the ways I won’t be able to win her back. My eyes shift to the list on my desk, the pathetic list of ways to win her back, all of them pure crap, all of them real losers.

  “That doesn’t look like allergies.”

  “What do you want, Frank?” I snap at him.

  He doesn’t answer right away. He studies me, though, looking unsure and uncomfortable. I’m about to snap at him one more time when he says, “Um, my publisher friend said he’s very interested in your book proposal.”

  “Cool,” I say, keeping my head focused on my computer.

  “Cool? That’s all you have to say? Cool?” He steps into my office but shuts the door. “Can you explain to me why you’re not more excited?” I don’t answer. “Does this have to do with you crying?”

  “I’m not . . . crying,” I say, choking up and then wiping my eyes again.

  Frank takes a seat, his purple velvet suit jacket boldly bright and reminding me of a dress June once wore, a dress that made her eyes stand out and her hair look like tempting fire.

  More tears well in my eyes and the last thing I want to do is be the guy who’s sobbing at work over a breakup. But . . .

  *Raises hand*

  I’m that guy.

  Tears flood my eyes and my head falls to my desk as a sob rips through me.

  Frank clears his throat. “Are you still going to claim allergies?”

  “She . . . broke up with me,” I say, getting all the words out before another sob.

  “June?” Frank asks. “June broke up with you?” I nod against my desk. “Why?”

  I look up, and a Post-It stays stuck to my forehead. I don’t bother removing it; that’s how pathetic I am. “Why do you think? She found out about the article.”

  “You never told her?”

  “What?” I ask. “You told me not to.”

  “That was when you first started out. I didn’t want you plaguing the girl’s mind with what we were doing, I wanted an authentic experience, but once you started developing feelings for her, you should have told her. What does The Modern Gentleman always say? Be open and honest.”

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  “Frank, you threatened my job.”

  “To light a fire under your ass, and it worked. You were far too complacent in your position. Yes, you are the bread and butter of this website, we can all see that, but you were starting to fall into a rhythm that was running dry. You needed to be sparked again, and you were. But honestly, Wes, any gentleman would have known when things got serious that’s when you have a conversation with your girl.”

  “I can’t freaking believe this.” I push away from my desk. “Frank, you can’t threaten my job to get what you want.”

  “Yes, I can. I’m your boss. You were in a rut.
If you continued in that rut, it would leave me with nothing else to do than replace you. I’m glad that’s not the case here, but I treated you like any other employee who has become complacent in their job. I’ve seen your potential to branch out in the publishing world for quite some time now, start a brand, but how were you going to do that just going through the motions?”

  “Wait, hold on a second. You want me to branch out?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? It would be best for both of us and you did bring the idea for the column to HYPE. I’d rather work with you than against you. I see you guest blogging with us, still running the column, but also working on a brand that ventures out to all things Modern Gentleman.”

  I can barely wrap my head around what he’s saying, and how it matches everything Roman and Caden have said. Here I thought Frank was the bad guy when, in fact, he was looking out for my best interests.

  Why does he have to be so . . . eccentric? So hard to read?

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Well, the business side of things we can focus on later, because it seems like we have to deal with more pressing matters. How do we get June back? What are your ideas?”

  Am I really doing this? Plotting with Frank?

  From the way he gets comfortable in the chair across from me, I’m guessing yes.

  “Get on with it, we don’t want much time to pass,” he encourages.

  Clearing my throat and wiping my eyes again, I pick up my sad piece of paper and read through it.

  “These are just ideas, but uh . . . send flowers.”

  “Oh boy.” Frank brings his hand over his eyes and massages his head. “I can see that maybe your powers of being The Modern Gentleman are diminished by the fact that you’re grief-stricken right now, which is understandable, so why don’t I lend a hand?” He folds his hands and asks, “Have you apologized?”

  I think back to our fight. “Uh, I don’t think I got the chance to.”

  “Okay, well that’s job number one.” He points to my paper. “Write that down.” I quickly jot down notes. “Now, we need to make a grand gesture, something that you’ve talked to her about on one of your dates, something that will prove—”