The Bachelor Society Duet: The Bachelors Club

by Sara Ney

  “What did they say?”

  “They said, ‘Spencer, you stupid idiot, don’t let them call you Tuna Fish.’ I was so confused. Then my sister goes, ‘It means fish, but it’s also…kind of like saying your crotch smells. Do you want people to think your crotch smells?’”

  I sputter on my tea. “Your sister said that?”

  “Brutal, those two.” She’s shaking her head at the memory, a smile playing on her lips. “I mean—they did me a favor by telling me the truth, so I went to school the next day and told everyone to stop calling me Tuna Fish, and I stopped wearing that T-shirt. Can you imagine? That name would have followed me through high school.” Her head shakes at the mere thought and she shivers. “Nightmare.”

  I agree. “I wouldn’t have wanted to ask a girl called Tuna Fish to prom.”

  A one-shoulder shrug. “I never went to prom anyway.”

  “You didn’t?” The news surprises me; if Spencer was half as cute as a teenager as she is now, I can’t believe boys weren’t beating down her door.

  “Nah, I scared most guys away.” She pops a slice of ginger onto her tongue and chews. Swallows. “Asking out an outspoken female teenager when you’re seventeen is intimidating. Guys always liked to date giggly, feminine girls, and I was too…”

  “Wild?”

  “No.”

  “Crazy?”

  “No—oh my God, Phillip, would you let me finish?”

  “Sure.” But I don’t need her to; I know how young guys are when it comes to strong, independent girls. How men react to strong, independent women—I know exactly what Spencer is going to tell me.

  “I scared them off because I said what was on my mind.” She’s digging into the soup again, insatiable. “Everyone says what they want is someone who doesn’t play games, but in reality, that’s not what they want at all. Men can’t handle it.”

  “You can’t stereotype us all.”

  She glances up, spoon poised to hit her lips. “Are you saying that’s what you want? Someone who tells it like it is?”

  “If I were dating—if—then yeah, that’s what I’d want.” But she’s right. Last week I might have felt different, but now that I’ve met Spencer, I think someone like her would be good for me. Unlike the girls in the past, the ones who agreed with everything I said. The ones who giggled and laughed, even when I wasn’t trying to be funny. Who wanted to be taken care of so they wouldn’t have to work.

  Which is fine; to each their own.

  But admit it. Don’t lie.

  Spencer looks skeptical but doesn’t press for more information. Instead, she says, “What about you? What’s a secret about something embarrassing? I told you mine.”

  “That was from fourth grade—hardly the same. That story was more adorable than humiliating.”

  She considers this. “I suppose. But I still want to hear what you have to say.”

  “Okay, give me a minute.” While I’m racking my brain, I continue shoving sushi into my gullet. The impromptu picnic has satisfied my appetite. I don’t know what I was craving, but this? This moment?

  I want more of it.

  Three more pieces of ninja roll and I wipe my hands on the napkin folded across my lap, licking my lips. Stretch my legs in front of me and grin. “Okay, I thought of something. It’s not nearly as good as you getting your period at school, but I did once get a boner during math class.” I can feel the blush over my entire body, and curse myself for saying the word boner. Regret it instantly. “On second thought, never mind.”

  “Oh come on!” Spencer whines. “You have to tell me about your surprise boner!”

  “First of all, don’t call it a surprise boner.” I laugh, folding my arms. “Secondly, just forget it. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  “Lame.” She gives me a thumbs down, and a pouty lower lip.

  “When I was a kid,” I begin slowly. “My mom would put me in the worst fucking clothes, and they were always a few sizes too big so I could grow into them.” She did it to my sister, too. “For picture day one year—can’t remember what grade, maybe second—she made me wear this plaid shirt and khakis.”

  “Aww.”

  “No, not aww. It was embarrassing. I was seven and looked like a tiny nerd—what self-respecting dude wants to wear plaid and khakis on picture day? I wanted to wear my Captain America T-shirt and mesh track pants.”

  “Uh-huh, says the guy with a surprise boner.” She’s eating and listening attentively, sprawled out next to me in what she called her “Thursday dressy jeans” and a light lavender sweater. It looks soft and touchable.

  Er.

  Yeah.

  Focus, Phillip.

  “So I’m in this outfit, and my mom insists on taking a picture before I leave, and since I’m mad about it, I slouch and make the dumbest face. When she developed the film, I found the picture and tore it up, but she found it and dug it out of the trash and taped it back together.”

  “That’s actually adorable that you’d do that, all mad and angry.”

  “There’s more,” I explain. “The picture gets pinned to the pegboard, all taped up. When I was in college I was dating this one girl and she had a photography class, so she took the photo and repaired it, or whatever it is photographers do to fix pictures—you couldn’t even tell I’d torn it up.”

  “That was nice of her!”

  “Yeah.” My head is resting against the wall and I look up at the ceiling, studying the lights and the ceiling tiles. “I have an older sister, Lisbeth. She’s an asshole, thinks everything is a big joke. One weekend she was home, she took a picture of the picture on her phone because my mom still has the damn thing on the pegboard, even to this day, and every once in a while, Lisbeth will superimpose what everyone calls ‘Little Angry Phillip’ onto different pictures of me. Like the family photo from my cousin’s wedding—little angry me is in the background looking like a tiny serial killer.”

  “Can I see? You must have it saved on your phone.”

  I do, because Lisbeth sends so goddamn many of them in the family group texts. Me at Comic-Con with Little Angry Phillip. Me and my buddies at a bachelor party with Little Angry Phillip. Christmas pictures. Christenings. Vacations.

  Like when does she have time for all that dumb shit?

  I thumb through my gallery, selfies and photographs of construction sites whizzing by as my finger nudges the feed along, Spencer scooting closer so she can peek. Shoulder brushing mine. Knees touching.

  My body reacts.

  Damn—it’s either been too long since I’ve had sex, or I’m ridiculously attracted to her. Or both.

  I clear my throat, not sure what else to do. Point to a photoshopped picture of myself with my younger self that my sister created on her laptop as a joke. “See?”

  Spencer leans farther over, breasts brushing my arm. “Dude, that is hilarious! I love your sister.”

  “Don’t. She’s a monster.”

  “Oh come on, she can’t be all that bad if one of her favorite hobbies is to torture you via humiliation.”

  True. She does like doing that. “Isn’t that also one of your favorite hobbies?”

  Spencer nods. “That and knitting.”

  My brows go up and I turn my head to look at her. “You knit?”

  “No, but I want to knit a poncho.” She sighs deeply into her spoonful of wonton soup. “I took a knitting class once and lasted exactly one hour—it’s just not the sport for me.”

  “Sport?”

  “I’m not athletic, and it takes hand-eye coordination.”

  “You’re such a weirdo.”

  “Aww.” She lays her head on my shoulder as she says it. Classic chick move. “You’re the sweetest. I love it when you compliment me.”

  “That wasn’t—” I stop myself short because in reality, calling her a weirdo was kind of a compliment. “You’re certainly not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

  Spencer lets out another flattered “Aww” and smirks. “Stop, you’r
e making me blush. I’m overcome.” She pauses. “Even though I have no idea what you mean by that.”

  I do.

  I mean: Spencer is funny and sassy wrapped up in one. Sweet and giving. Kind to everyone (everyone but me, ha). Generous with her time (and food), always willing to answer questions around the office. Willing to stand and listen to our co-workers drone on and on about themselves or their free time, boasting about their dating lives or something they did over the weekend.

  Spencer is not boastful or spoiled or catty. She’s not stuck-up or selfish.

  I don’t say any of this out loud.

  Another light in the office goes dark.

  She lifts her head and sits up straighter. “What time is it?”

  We lost track of it a while ago.

  I tap my phone. “Shit, it’s almost nine.”

  “Almost nine? Dang! I’ve never stayed this late.” She stretches, her elbow brushing my side, ponytail swishing.

  It kicks up the scent of her shampoo, and I sneak a whiff.

  “You really have to stop sniffing me—it’s weird.”

  “I…” Do I bother denying it? I decide no. Change the subject. “I’ve been gone forever—I have to let the dog out, and play with him,” I groan. “He’s going to be a maniac.”

  We gather our dinner, stacking cartons on the desks, cups and bowls.

  “Poor guy.”

  And poor me—I’m going to be up all damn night with him. Humphrey might be low-hanging fruit, aka low to the ground and built like a Tonka Truck, but he has energy to spare, especially when he’s been home sleeping all day.

  I hadn’t planned on being at the office so long, and now little dude is going to be stir crazy, not to mention he’s going to have to piss, if he hasn’t peed in the house already.

  Shit.

  Peed or shit.

  That would be a crappy ending to an awesome day, pun intended.

  “Thanks again for dinner, Phillip.”

  Goddamn if I don’t love the way she says my name. Casually, with a hint of…something I can’t put my finger on. A flirty little subtext I can’t describe.

  Thanks again for dinner, Phil-lip.

  “And thank you for keeping me company.” Spencer hesitates, unsure. “It was…nice.”

  There’s that word again.

  Nice.

  “How are you getting home?” I ask, tossing the cartons in the garbage can then placing it in the hallway.

  Her ponytail swishes. “The train? I live about ten blocks away. Near Station Twelve.”

  Huh. I’m near Station Twelve, too. “I’m about ten blocks.” Nine to be exact, but close enough. “Share a ride? It’s late—let’s not take the train. Plus it’ll be quicker, and I’ve gotta bust it home.”

  Also, I want to spend more time with her.

  Sue me.

  “Sure, we could share a ride.” I swear she’s blushing again. “Want me to…” She wiggles her phone in the air.

  I hold mine up and flash the already active ride app. “I got it.”

  Yup, she’s definitely blushing.

  12

  Spencer

  Our ride is a tiny, black hybrid with room enough for three, and when it pulls up to the curb outside our glossy high-rise of an office building, Phillip lunges forward to get the door. Pulls it open and gestures.

  “Ladies first.”

  I smile as I scoot past him, grateful he isn’t the type to sit in front with the driver—I want his attention. I don’t want him sitting in the passenger seat making small talk with the guy driving.

  Phillip’s laptop bag divides the back seat and he confirms our two locations, glancing at me. “You’re on Brady?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “I’m on Central.” Just two blocks over—in city terms, that’s as good as being next door.

  “Who knew?” My whole body glows with an unexplained happiness I know I shouldn’t be feeling—this is not a date. He is not my boyfriend. He does not like me.

  We work together.

  But.

  The chemistry…

  I know the ride won’t last long; I’ve done it enough times—twenty minutes tops, and that’s during rush-hour traffic. It’s after nine right now, so it’s practically a ghost town on these side streets our driver begins navigating through, passing townhouses and apartments.

  I’m in an apartment, above a townhouse, four stories up. Real talk: I live in an attic. Real talk: the pigeons and occasional dove on my window ledges drive me freaking insane, especially when they shit all over, leaving things a mess. I hate seeing the bird turd as much as I loathe being woken up at the butt crack of dawn on a day I can sleep in.

  Damn birds.

  In companionable silence, we weave up and down streets. Pretty, tree-lined streets with families tucked away inside.

  Our car hangs a right near my neighborhood. Slows.

  “My place is up here on the left.” Phillip leans forward to explain. “The one with the hedges and black fence.”

  Well la-di-da—isn’t he fancy.

  In reality, I’m shocked by this new development. Phillip is younger than I am; the fact that he is more established domestically chafes a little as we pull up to his house.

  It’s a lovely brownstone; had to have cost a bundle. I wonder where he got the money, speculating that it must have been an inheritance. Or risky investment that paid off.

  Phillip is twenty-eight—how does he own a house in the city?

  “I love it,” I say, leaning forward so I can gaze out the window at the brick building with its tidy hedgerow and shiny, decorative wrought iron fence. “Do you have the entire place?”

  “Yeah.” He doesn’t explain further, just hefts his man purse bag to his lap. Phillip gazes out the window, too. “God, the dog must be losing his mind.” He glances at me. “I hope he doesn’t start peeing when I walk through the door.”

  “Nervous pee-er?” I ask.

  Phillip confirms this with a laugh.

  “Me too,” I tell him, just to get a reaction. “But I bet he’s adorable. I’ve never actually met a Basset Hound in real life—only seen them in the movies.”

  He laughs again, gesturing toward the house. “Do you want to meet one now? I mean, real quick? I have to walk him a bit, so maybe…”

  Is he offering to walk me the rest of the way home?

  “…he and I can walk you the rest of the way home. You said it’s only a block over?”

  “Two.” I nervously futz with my ponytail.

  “That’s kind of perfect. You want to come up while I grab him?”

  Um—do I? Hell yes. Not only do I want to see his dog and spend more time with him, I’m dying to see the inside of his brownstone.

  I gather up my stuff: purse, laptop—check, check. Give the seat and floor around me a once-over to be sure neither of us are forgetting anything.

  Phillip waits, hand on the doorframe as I shimmy my way across the pleather seat and climb out, eyes scanning the façade of his house. It’s three stories high with red brick, white trim, and a black door.

  Wow.

  I’m impressed.

  Do not ask where he got the money for this place, do not ask where he got the money for this place… It’s rude. Don’t.

  “Did you win the lottery?” I blurt out.

  Dammit Spencer, what did I just get done telling you? Ugh, have some class.

  Phillip takes it in stride, laughing. “Right?” Fumbles with a set of keys for the deadbolt, enters four digits into the keypad below it. “I inherited it when my grandmother died. They had a few places around the city as investments, this was one of them. I got one, my sister got one—she sold hers because she doesn’t live here and it didn’t make sense paying all those property taxes.”

  This makes so much more sense than him buying it.

  “I’ve been renovating for the past two years.” He pushes the front door open, revealing a black and white tiled entry hall with coat hooks to the r
ight and a shoe rack to the left.

  Clean. Tidy.

  So, so pretty.

  Another set of door codes and he is motioning for me to enter the foyer, a staircase running up the length of the right wall. Flips on three light switches. Tosses his keys in a bowl, on a table, next to the second door.

  Phillip purses his lips and lets out a low whistle.

  I hear the hoofbeats of a stampeding horse galloping toward the foyer. Hear the panting energy. The beast crashes into something I cannot see, followed by another crash, more stampeding.

  “Oh Jesus,” Phillip says. “Brace yourself.”

  “Shit, now I’m scared.”

  “He’s loud, but squat. You’ll see.”

  13

  Phillip

  Spencer is here. In my house.

  Which shouldn’t be a big deal since I’ve obviously had women at my place before. And this isn’t a date by any stretch of the imagination. We shared a car ride home—that is it.

  So why is my fucking heart racing? Why are my damn palms sweating? I could barely insert the key into my deadbolt, and I almost forgot the code to get into the house.

  “Oh Jesus.” I breathe out a sigh, listening as Humphrey comes barreling through the house as fast as his short legs can carry him, smashing into what can only be the trophy table I have in my home office—a place he loves sleeping when I’m gone. “Brace yourself.”

  “Shit, now I’m scared.” Spencer grins good-naturedly.

  “He’s loud, but squat.” I try to explain, as if it wasn’t obvious he’s loud. You’d have to be deaf not to hear the short bastard roaring through the house. “You’ll see.”

  The panting gets noisier; I can practically hear the drool flying from his tongue and onto my hardwood floors, make a mental note to wipe them down when we get back from our walk.

  Pick up whatever he broke.