Page 2
Chapter 2
Where Are These Men in Real Life?
Gabe
I want to stick this salad fork directly into my eye.
Or maybe I’ll stick it into the eye of Dr. Dan Briarstone, Ottawa’s Most Eligible Bachelor and orthopedic surgeon for the city’s professional athletes. It’ll be the most interesting thing to happen on our date tonight.
Hidden from view, I set a timer on the phone in my lap. If he talks about anything— literally, anything —other than medicine and his daily skincare routine in the next five minutes, I will give him a blowjob right here, in the middle of this packed restaurant.
The countdown begins as I force an unladylike yawn. Doesn’t seem to translate.
“I used to have spots on my cheeks and nose like yours” —oh, how nice, he finally said something about me— “not as many, of course. But I started using this Vitamin C serum and, poof ! Gone. Turns out they were melasma. Highly recommend it to everyone with blemishes.”
Blemishes? Time’s up.
The relationship I have with my freckles is as complicated as the one with my mother. Freckles and the color of my eyes are all I have left of her. I’d cut all the other parts away, a necessary amputation in an effort for self-preservation, but it still aches like a phantom limb.
A deadpan look shot at him doesn’t seem to register, either. So much for being a genius. This dude is dense as lead.
I go for a tried-and-true tactic: groaning while scrunching my stomach. “You know what? I’m actually not feeling so hot.”
“Oh?” He grimaces, looking at my picked-at greens. “I bet it’s that dressing. Gotta watch out for those rich sauces. They’re so fatty.”
My eyes roll. Dan raises an arm to call the waiter over for the check, and I retrieve a card from my wristlet.
“We’ll split it.”
“Please, Gabe. Don’t insult me.” He passes my card back across the table. “I’ll take you home, too.”
Great.
This has got to be one of the Top 5 Worst Dates I’ve ever been on. Right below Mr. Drank-Too-Much-He-Pissed-Himself.
To others, Dan would seem a gentleman. Offering to pay for dinner, opening and closing the car door. But everything he does and says prickles my skin. He’s smug, self-involved, and borderline controlling. Barf. And how much should I bet that he’s still gonna try to get in my pants?
I pay absolutely zero attention to him on the drive through downtown, fake nausea slowly turning into real nausea with every swerve and screechy stop at busy intersections.
When we pull up to the curb, he jogs around to the passenger side, helping me out from the low ground clearance of his fiery red Mercedes. My bare arms prickle with goosebumps from the touch. His grip is too firm, a creepy, unspoken sort of persuasion.
“Let me walk you up.”
It’s a step beyond comfort. An uneasy noise hums out.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” I hug my torso, milking the stomachache some more. “I’m still not feeling well. It won’t be a fun time.”
“I don’t mind.” He shrugs. Pushy bastard. “You might feel better in a bit. We could watch some Netflix, get comfortable…” His eyebrows waggle suggestively.
Yuck. No.
“…See where the night takes us.”
Cold fingers connect with the arch of my hip over the black fabric of my dress. I shrink away.
“I need to rest, actually. I’m traveling for work tomorrow, and I can’t be sick on the road.”
The doctor laughs with a shake of his head. “You might as well have said you don’t like me.”
“ Heh-heh ,” I titter, taking a step back toward the lobby doors. Enough to be in camera range and view of the security desk. “Good night.”
“Holy shit.” He stalks forward, eyes squinting as his smile drops from his face. “You don’t like me?”
“I didn’t say it. You did.”
“ Wow , Gabe.”
His steps halt, thank God.
“You know there are literally hundreds of women in this city who do, right?”
Seriously, where do I find these guys?
“How nice. Maybe one of them will go out with you, but it won’t be me.”
Dan’s jaw ticks before he scoffs and turns to the street.
“Prude,” he mumbles.
I wait until the car door slams and the engine roars to life.
“I hope that Botox seeps into your bloodstream and paralyzes your face!” My insult strikes as he peals away, flipping me his middle finger.
“And another thing! Your balls are the size of peas!” I continue before retreating to the corridor. It earns me raised eyebrows from the security men seated in the lobby. Olawale and Jawed have been witness to many sad nights.
“You alright, ma’am?” Jawed’s kind eyes crinkle in worry. He’s always so polite.
I grumble. “Yeah.”
“Was it a bad date?” Olawale adds, curling his hand against his cheek.
“Isn’t it always?”
“Maybe these days.” Olawale shrugs. “But nothing lasts forever, eh?” The way he says eh? in his Nigerian accent makes me smile.
Jawed agrees with a nod. “Sorry to hear that, ma’am.”
“Me, too.” There’s an awkward lull. “I’m gonna get going. Early morning flight tomorrow.”
“What time shall I have the taxi wait?”
“4 a.m., please. And thanks, Wale.”
They wave me off as I enter the elevator and slump into the back wall. My belly growls.
“I know,” I reply. “You deserve a grilled cheese.”
The lights click on as I kick off my heels and drop my clutch onto the sideboard in the foyer, pausing to swipe a hand across the herringbone wood pattern on its cabinet doors in admiration.
I’m desperate for something grounding, and head to the last door on the right, the one to the corner room. It creaks as I peek in and ends with the faint buzz of the humidifier and black lights. Scents of sweet gardenia and tart hibiscus fill the space. My collection of tropical plants sleeps peacefully. I rub a few lush green leaves between my thumb and index finger. No matter how hard I try, I don’t feel anything in response to nurturing them. These plants thrive here regardless. I wish I could say the same for myself.
I sigh and leave, feeling just as empty as when I returned home.
While the grilled cheese sandwich crisps on the pan, I shed the bodycon dress and replace it with a white tank and loose gray joggers, satisfied with the handiwork of my new cleaning service.
Constant travel during the season makes it hard to keep tidy. The apartment is simply a place to crash, eat, dump used clothing, and pack for the next trip. I’ve got the basics and a fancy gadget or two, but I don’t spend enough time here to make it my own. Wondering if Dottie’s Cleaners did the laundry, I wander towards the machines in the closet. They did, thank God.
Plush athletic socks retrieved from the dryer keep my feet warm. My hair goes into a high ponytail while I smoothly skate back into the kitchen, then plop down on the couch with possibly the best sandwich I’ve ever made. Angels would sing if they saw this beauty.
The cozy vibe calls for a comfort watch. I flip the TV on and stream a favorite: the one in the quaint little town in the northeastern United States where everyone knows everyone’s business, quirky side characters are always up to no good, and the mom and daughter talk way too fast.
A dark-haired dreamboat who talks out of the corner of his mouth and reads on park benches throughout the aforementioned quaint town appears on the screen, leaving behind his book to follow around a girl like a puppy.
“Damn,” I say through a cheesy bite. “Where are these men in real life?”
I frown at myself, gushing over an on-screen teenager. Google confirms he was twenty-four when they started filming his part, which makes me feel a little better. A little.
“Twenty-four? That’s way too young for you, Finch. Been there, rode that. Never again.”
At thirty-one, there’s no more time to waste on immature jerks and mediocre dick. Or on immature jerks with excellent dick.
Especially not when they’re irritatingly hot goalies. Or named Wade Boehner. The man loves making my work life hell by being unprofessional any chance he gets. It’d been a mistake to kiss him at a New Year’s Eve party, but the night we’d spent after Indi’s wedding surely cleared our systems once and for all.
Like answering a distress signal, a text notification from my best friend pings my phone.
Indi
Text me SOS if your date sucks, and I’ll call to bail you out.
Indi
Or the kitty cat if it’s going well.
Me
How much wine have you had?
Indi
Enough hehe
Hehe ? Marriage has truly changed her.
Me
Isn’t it 2 a.m. in Italy?
Indi
Never too early for wine in this country!
Me
Oh boy.
Indi
Don’t judge us! We’re on vacation and haven’t gone back to the hotel yet from dinner
Me
You’re right, you should be having fun!
Me
And I’m already home, watching Gilmore Girls.
Indi
Ouch. That bad?
Me
Worse.
Indi
Fly here! We’ll find you a gorgeous Italian man who’ll beg to eat grapes off of your body.
Me
I’ll settle for a man in Ottawa who’ll beg to eat me out properly.
Indi
Cin Cin!
Indi
ahahah, but seriously, they’re out there.
She’d know. Indi Davé married her dream man, Landon Radek, the poster boy for the NHL. She’s off canoodling with the alternate captain of the Regents during the end of European Summer before the season kicks into gear.
Me
Stop rubbing it in.
Indi
That’s what she said.
Me
Landon is a bad influence.
Indi
Absolutely. Thank God he has a big dick to make up for it.
Me
This is where I’d like the conversation to end.
Indi
I love you!! Call you soon.
Me
Love you, too.
My plate makes its way onto the coffee table as the Netflix app glitches and switches to live TV.
“What now?” I ask the remote, pressing a few buttons to troubleshoot.
When I casually glance over the screen, anger builds toward the star of the athletic wear ad. Kurt Vaughn, a Toronto Towers center and my ex-fiancé, dunks on an undefended basket. He looks like he always does: angled jaw, broad shoulders, toned arms. Six feet and six inches of pure strength and speed.
I turn the TV off.
I want to scream, but I don’t. No tears come, either. Instead, the hollow ache of lost love settles in my chest.
It’s been almost four years since I broke off our engagement, but grief is sneaky. It lurks below the surface like a shark. And when I stop paying attention, presuming the anger is gone for good, it breaches the barrier and engulfs me in an uncontrolled wave of loss.
It wasn’t my fault. I shouldn’t care. He was a cheating bastard. But why wasn’t I enough? Was I really that hard to love that he had to stick his dick wherever he could?
I take a sinking seat in the pit of self-loathing; I grab my phone and send a message to my neighbor, Brett. He’s not the best fuck, but it’s better than thinking about Kurt.
Me
You home?
Brett
Yep. Be there in 5?
Twenty minutes later, I’m on my back with Brett’s cock inside me. A drop of sweat from the tip of his nose lands on the pillowcase next to my ear. He spews profanities as he finishes, then deepens the wrinkle in his brow.
Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.
There’s a curious, quizzical gleam in his eyes.
Crap, he’s gonna say it.
“Did you come?”
My throat clears as he pulls out.
There can’t possibly be a worse question.
“Uh…” I’m about to lie, but he catches it.
“Shit. You didn’t?”
“Sorry, I think it’s me.”
“That’s bullshit, Gabe.” Brett swipes the condom off and climbs off the bed to get rid of it. He kneels below me upon his return. “Let me try at least.”
His hands pry apart my legs, but I push his face away. I’m grateful he’s willing to learn, but it’s too exhausting to have to walk through this with someone I don’t care about. Or trust fully.
“It’s okay, Brett.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I think it’s stress from work or something. I should probably sleep it off. Thanks, though.”
We take turns peeing and get clothed again. There’s a flash of regret in his smile when he leaves, and I sorta feel bad.
It is me, after all. I’m the jerk in this situation. Beggars can’t be choosers, but I’m simply not in the mood to teach Pussy Eating 101 to a grown man.
Toys never disappoint. They don’t run out of steam or change the pace when you’re about to come. They don’t try to spell the alphabet on your clit because they read about it in a magazine article. Most of all, they don’t cheat or leave you heartbroken after seven years.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the baby blue silicone clit sucker tucked in my nightstand drawer, sated after an orgasm. My lip turns up.
I’m talking to inanimate objects again.
“I gotta stop doing that.” The warm comforter tucks under my chin as I curl in. “Makes it seem like I’m super lonely or something.”
Who am I kidding? I am super lonely. I am also super sleepy.
Maybe I should get a dog. That’s what lonely people do, right? Yeah, a sweet, loyal puppy is exactly what I need.