Sex And Other Shiny Objects

by Blakely, Lauren

  “If you insist.”

  “I do.” I happily help her because I love what I do, and I welcome the distraction.

  She chooses a stars and planets bra, and as I ring her up, I ask about her plans for the week.

  “I am on the hunt for a fun new girls’ night out activity. I’m in charge of planning it this time, and I have nothing so far,” she says.

  Fortunately, I have just the answer. “Try goat yoga. My girlfriends and I are going to do that. We took Cirque du Soleil classes too, and they were horrible but also fun.”

  “Those sound like a blast,” she says, then narrows her eyes at me, serious again. “And I’m going to pop in next week to buy more little darlings and to check on you.” She waves goodbye, then says in a hopeful tone, “But I have a feeling.”

  When the door shuts, I see a familiar silhouette walk past my store.

  My ex. He’s in a suit, hair slicked back, talking on the phone, heading uptown.

  And I feel nothing.

  I turn away from the window.

  I don’t care where Gage goes or walks or what he does. He’s my past.

  Even if he skirts near my present, I’m not bothered.

  He’s just another guy on the streets of New York.

  He’s not the one I want to see walking into my store, coming to my home.

  My shoulders shudder as a wave of longing crashes over me.

  “Hey.” Marley’s voice is soft but insistent, her hand gentle as she touches my arm. “Get some fresh air. You’re sad, but you shouldn’t be sad.” Her soft brown eyes are wise beyond her years.

  “Why do you say that?”

  She shrugs happily. “Like Daniella said, I have a feeling. Go for a walk. See if you get a feeling too.”

  She shoos me out the door.

  And as I walk along Madison Avenue, heading downtown, savoring the changing colors of fall, I reflect on their words. I have a feeling.

  And my mom’s. You have a vibe.

  Lola’s too. I’ve seen the way you two are together.

  And then Tristan’s, in bed, before the first time. You have no idea.

  And all the other things, said and unsaid, that have passed between Tristan and me over the years.

  Back in college. When we were friends. When we kissed. When we returned to being friends again.

  And over the last nine months since I’ve been single. How he makes me the owner’s special. And gives me chocolate. And listens to every word I say.

  And the past few nights. The way he’s touched me, looked at me, whispered my name.

  I saw so much in his eyes. So much truth and honesty.

  I was searching for confirmation in words. But maybe he already gave it to me in other ways. Or perhaps I wasn’t seeing between the lines.

  And maybe I need to find a way to give him more than a fishing expedition of effort. More than feel-him-out questions about my blog or the experiments or friends with bennies.

  I need to tell him in no uncertain terms.

  Because regrets are for haircuts and exes.

  And I don’t want Tristan to be an ex-anything.

  I turn around.

  31

  Tristan

  I’ll give her till eleven to call me back.

  That should be enough time for her to wake up, get dressed, go to work, settle in for the day, and listen to messages.

  That’s civilized—give the woman a little time and space to deal with her business.

  I go into work early, checking her blog on the way. But there’s no new post, and my heart sinks a little lower.

  No worries though. She’s probably busy with Monday morning work stuff. At the restaurant, I handle the usual smattering of phone calls from suppliers and emails regarding inventory.

  When eleven rolls around, my phone is still bereft of messages or texts from her.

  I open the call log, about to call her again, when the door swings open. Likely a customer coming in for an early lunch.

  I do a double take when I see who it is.

  My jaw ticks as Gage walks over to the counter, grabs a stool, and flashes me a grin.

  “Hey, Tris. What’s up? Saw a write-up for this spot in a food blog, so I’m meeting a client here for an early lunch.” He extends a hand to shake, like we’re buddies reconnecting after a long absence.

  I don’t take it. I slide him a menu. “Here you go.”

  “Whoa. What’s with the cold shoulder?”

  Is he for real? “Excuse me?”

  Gage looks around. “Isn’t this a place of business?”

  “Yes,” I say, clenching my fists. “And here’s the way to do business. You look at the menu. You place an order. That’s how it works.”

  Gage gives me a c’mon, man sigh, then flashes me a smile. “Look, Tris. I know you wanted Peyton long ago. You didn’t get her. It happens. I don’t have her either. Let’s just move on.” His eyes drift down to the menu, perusing the fare. “Now, what do I want to drink while I wait?”

  I seethe.

  This guy.

  This fucking guy.

  I park my hands on the bar, about as aggressive as I can be without being aggressive.

  “Let me make something clear.” He looks up from the menu, and I gesture from him to me. “You and I are not the same.”

  He tilts his head and arches a well-groomed brow. “But we kind of are. We both wanted her.” He studies me, waiting for me to respond perhaps. I remain stone-faced and silent, and he laughs. He actually laughs. “Wait. Did you think I didn’t know you were hot for her? I knew the whole time. I knew in college, and I knew the last few years.” He scratches his jaw. “And I guess the whole world knows too, thanks to her ridiculous blog. Like I didn’t know you were her trick pony,” he scoffs.

  Temper burns through me, raging like a forest fire. But I think of Barrett and what I told him last night. The measure of a man isn’t fists, or fights, or who thumps his chest the hardest.

  It’s integrity. It’s truth. I speak mine as I lean forward. “Her blog isn’t ridiculous. And you know nothing about me, or her, or us. Also, we don’t serve your kind around here.” Snatching the menu from him, I point to the door. “No shirt, no shoes, no assholes. Get the hell out of my restaurant. You lost the best woman you’ll ever have, and I would feel sorry if I could muster a single emotion for you, but I can’t. So goodbye.”

  He holds up his hands in some sort of excuse me gesture. “You don’t have her either.”

  “Once again, you’re missing the point entirely.” I take a beat and let go of my anger. “But then again, you always did.”

  He scoffs, pushes away, and walks out.

  As he leaves, I picture the time he walked back into her life a few years ago. When I’d bought flowers and planned to ask her out.

  Now I’m not in the least bit worried about that chump. I don’t need to beat him to her doorstep. He’s not winning her back ever again.

  But I’m also not wasting another minute waiting. I did that for ten years, and I’m done frittering away another nanosecond.

  I tell my assistant manager I need to handle some errands, then I leave and head straight for her store.

  When I reach it ten minutes later, she’s rounding the block, a look of intense focus on her face, her lips parted, like she’s practicing a speech.

  I walk right up to her, stop in front of her, and clasp her cheeks.

  She startles, then says, “Oh.”

  I don’t wait. I say everything I should have said last night. “I love you. I love you. I love you. Please love me too.”

  32

  Peyton

  This is the real dream.

  This is the moment that’s so surreal, it might be my deepest fantasy. Powerful and potent and the one I want now.

  The one I’ve only realized I had in the last few days. But it’s been growing inside me for years. I’ve been watering the seed of it, tending to it, readying it to bloom.

  Shivers run dow
n my arms, and they’re not from the slight chill in the air. They’re from my reality.

  The man I love holds my face, gazes deep into my eyes, and asks me to love him.

  I slide my hands up his chest, touching him, needing to connect with him. “You don’t have to ask. I’m already there. I love you,” I say, at last speaking the words I tried to say twelve hours ago. “I should have told you last night. I wanted to tell you, but I was scared. I’m not scared now, and I was coming to find you and tell you too.”

  His lips curve in a grin. “But I found you.”

  “I always want you to find me.”

  “I always will.” He sighs, and the sound that comes with it is rich with joy. “Kiss me,” he tells me. “Kiss me like you love me.”

  “I can’t kiss you any other way.” I brush my lips to his, gasping at the feel of him.

  In a way, it’s our first kiss.

  It’s the first time we’ve touched this honestly, this truthfully. It’s our first kiss knowing the score. And that’s how we kiss, like we’ve been waiting years to fall in love fully, completely, with the right person.

  He holds my face the whole time, like he doesn’t want to let go of me.

  I don’t want him to either. I want to be in his arms, with this man I trust and love and cherish.

  His lips travel over mine, an eager exploration as we enter this new land together.

  Love.

  Real love.

  With true intimacy.

  When we break the kiss days later—okay, maybe it’s only a few minutes—he’s smiling at me and I’m grinning at him.

  “I should have done that years ago,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Same here.”

  He runs his thumb along my cheek. “I wanted to a few years ago. Before . . .” He trails off, not saying his name. He doesn’t need to.

  “You did?”

  He nods solemnly. “I was all ready to give you flowers and go to your house and ask you to go out with me. That cologne you gave me had me convinced.”

  I laugh, remembering that gift. “You did smell awfully yummy when you wore it.”

  “I was stupidly convinced the cologne was a sign.”

  “Maybe it was, and I didn’t realize it. Maybe I wasn’t prepared for real love then. But I am now, and I’m not letting you slip away.” I grab the neckline of his shirt for emphasis, clutching him tight. “I’m not.”

  He gathers me close, kisses my hair, and whispers, “I won’t let you. I promise. Besides, I have nowhere to go but to you, Peyton.”

  My throat hitches, but this time I don’t try to swallow down the tears. They’re tears of happiness, and I let them fall.

  And I’m even happier when he kisses them away, his lips soft and tender on my cheek. “What do you say we conduct a new experiment?”

  I pull back to meet his eyes. “And what’s that?”

  “How about we try love and sex and friendship? All of those wrapped up together?”

  I tap my chin, like I’m deep in thought. “Hmm. Love, sex, and other shiny objects. I’m game.”

  That night after work, he comes over, and I pounce on him the second he walks through the door.

  We kiss like lovers in love, and like friends in love too.

  He carries me to my bed and strips me down to nothing. I am bare before him, heart and soul. “Tristan, it was never just sex for me.”

  He runs his fingers down my neck. “It was always love. Even when I fuck you, I’ll always be making love to you.”

  I shudder, wild with anticipation as I take off all his clothes too.

  When he’s inside me, I let go with him in a whole new way.

  This is everything I’ve ever wanted.

  Real intimacy.

  Real closeness.

  Real love.

  * * *

  “Victory is mine! And the game goes to the fifty-five-year-old.” My mom thrusts her racket in the air, showboat that she is.

  I shake my head, but I’m smiling as I congratulate her on her win on the badminton court. “You’re the champ, mom. But I do have a question for you. When you lie about your age, why do it by one year? Why not pretend you’re, say, twenty-nine?”

  She tuts, like that’s the silliest notion. “Because then we’d be twins, sweetheart.”

  “Ah, well. That explains everything.”

  “Also,” she says, as we exit the court after my epic pummeling, “I’m ready for my I told you so.”

  “Do you want me to serve it up with quinoa?”

  “Excellent idea. Let’s get a quinoa bowl and you can tell me all about what the vibe turned into.”

  We head to a café and I tell her the rest of the story. “And real love is awesome,” I add, when I finish the tale. “Also, you were right about Tristan and me having a thing. Does that make you happy?”

  “No. What makes me happy is that you chose wisely. And I don’t simply mean the man. You chose boldness. That was brave. That was worth it, wasn’t it?”

  I nod, agreeing with my whole heart. “When it comes to love, being bold is so much better than being careful,” I say, so glad I went for it with the man I adore.

  “Keep being bold. Love is worth it.”

  “And on that front, once again, you’re right.”

  As we dine on quinoa, I consider myself lucky to have so many amazing women in my life—women who’ve helped me reach for and realize so many dreams.

  From Mimi, to my mom, to my best friends, to the women I encounter in my job, they’ve all played a part in where I am today.

  And I’m exactly where I want to be.

  33

  Tristan

  She doesn’t stow away a small family under her dress.

  That’s good because her dress comes to just above her knees.

  It’s ruby red, and she looks like a jewel. The music shifts from some pop star to some other pop star, and I wrap an arm around her waist as we man the punch table.

  “Are you wearing red lace under that?” I whisper, my voice already husky as I picture unzipping this dress later.

  “Maybe,” she says with a flirty, dirty look. “Or maybe I’m wearing green. To match the shirt I bought you.” She tap-dances her fingers down the forest-green Henley. “Have I mentioned how good you look in this shirt?”

  “Good enough to get me naked later so you can have your way with me?” I ask in a growl.

  “That’s exactly my plan.”

  “You should conduct an experiment to see how quickly you can take it off me. I’ll do the same when it comes to stripping off your dress to see if you’re wearing green.” Around us, the seniors at Barrett’s school dance, laugh, and snap pictures. “But I doubt it. You usually match your undies to your clothes.”

  She wiggles her eyebrows. “Very observant. Also, green is not my color when it comes to lingerie.”

  “Why not?”

  “It makes me look like a leprechaun,” she says, flicking her red hair.

  I run a hand through those strands, tugging her close. “On you, Peyton, the leprechaun look is sexy.”

  She rolls her eyes as someone clears his throat.

  We yank apart to find that someone is my brother.

  “Don’t you know the chaperones aren’t supposed to make out?” he chides us.

  He’s not alone. The guy next to him with olive skin and green eyes shakes his head in amusement. “Adults today. You can’t leave them alone, Bear.”

  Bear. Eli already has a nickname for my brother.

  “Seriously. What does it take to get some punch around here?” Barrett asks.

  “All you have to do is ask nicely. And not slurp,” I say.

  Peyton sticks a hand in the air and waves. “Hello? Introductions, gentlemen.”

  As I ladle some punch, I second her. “Yes, Barrett. Make the intros.”

  After I pour the beverages, we all shake hands and say hello, and then Barrett and Eli head back to their crew, joining Rachel and the rest
of them.

  I turn to Peyton. “I suppose I should apologize for constantly putting my hands on you, but I can’t seem to find it in me.”

  “I would never accept such an apology. Because on me is my favorite place for your hands.” She smiles as the music shifts once again. The tune is instantly familiar.

  She grins like she has a secret. Our secret. “I asked them to play this. I’ve always wanted to kiss you again to this song.”

  Cyndi Lauper’s love song fills the gymnasium, and I take Peyton’s hand and bring her to the dance floor.

  And I give her what she wants.

  It’s what I want too.

  And this time is our time.

  For all time.

  34

  Peyton

  A few months later

  The blog worked for my brother. He sent an ultrasound picture to the family chat the other day. A tiny little peanut that’s growing in Holly.

  Jay: Thought you might like this first shot of the newest Valencia.

  Mom: The lingerie worked!

  Jay: You told mom we bought lingerie from your shop?

  Peyton: Obviously. Also, congratulations!!!!! Was it the leopard print that did the trick?

  Jay: Yes, do you want us to name the baby Leopard Print Valencia?

  Mom: That is a perfect name. Also, I’m so happy for you!

  Peyton: And I hope you have a girl so I can buy her her first bra someday.

  Jay: Can we please not talk about bras yet?

  Peyton: Sure. But mark my words, if you have a girl, I will definitely be taking her underthings shopping. Count on it.

  The blog worked for business too.