Seize the moment. Remember all those women on the 'Titanic' who waved off the dessert cart.
–Erma Bombeck
Scarlett
I always make the first move, like an aggressive fiend, but something tells me Guy doesn’t mind. Not when his lips are on mine, stroking in the softest way possible. This isn’t like in the kitchen, or even the first time we kissed. It’s not overwhelming and fiery, it’s soft and sweet. Comforting. Like the spaghetti. His arms go around me and pull me closer and then somehow, we’re lying on the couch stretched out and facing each other, my head on his shoulder and his resting on my bicep.
The heat doesn’t escalate like I expected. His hands are around me, but he doesn’t go for the goods like before, not like I might’ve expected. It stays like this, soft and sweet and no expectations.
He pulls back and I follow, seeking more.
“I never bring women here,” he says.
“Never?”
“I have teenage girls. It’s not exactly a den of iniquity. Not since . . .”
“Your ex-wife?”
He hesitates, searching my eyes for a few long seconds and then nods. “She wasn’t the nicest person to them. Or me for that matter.”
Surprise fills me. “Why wouldn’t she be nice? I mean, I can see why you might deserve it,” I tease. “But they are the sweetest girls.”
He smiles, but it falls quickly. “Marie was raised a little differently. She was an only child and her parents are wealthy from some grandparent who struck it big in oil. She’s never had to work or have goals or exist in a world where she wasn’t the center of everything.”
I try to picture Guy in a relationship with someone like that, knowing how hard he works, how hard he’s worked to get to where he is, and I just can’t see it. “I hope you don’t find this question insulting but how could you have married someone like that?”
He shifts to rest his head closer. “I didn’t know how she really was, initially. She was fun, beautiful, sweet and caring. I was riding the high from the reality show doing so well, and still kind of stuck in this . . .” he stops to think, trying to find the right words, “Hollywood version of reality. Reality shows aren’t real, you know?”
I nod.
“It’s all produced and dramatized to the point of fiction. Marie liked that version of me, the actor, the one that pulled in the ratings, and she was upset when I didn’t want to go back. I’d spent too much time away from the girls, and now I sort of regret it. Except, I wouldn’t be where I am now without having done it. But Marie, she acted unaffected by my choices and outwardly she was fine with the kids. I believed her when she said she didn’t care I was raising the girls. It wasn’t until Ava told me how she really was when I wasn’t around that I had any inkling of anything being wrong. And then the full truth really hammered home when she tried to get me to send them away.”
“Away where?”
“Boarding school for Ava and a special facility for Emma.”
My whole face drops. “No.”
His eyes shutter, gaze lowering. “It’s my fault. I chose poorly, and I didn’t prepare Marie adequately for the severity of Emma’s condition because…I guess I never thought of it as a problem. She is who she is, and I love her for it.”
I cup his face in my hands. “You’re a good man.”
His eyes search mine, the bright green dim in the low lights. “You might not think so tomorrow.”
My mouth twitches. “Maybe not.”
He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of my mouth. One side, then the other. Then my cheek, the side of my jaw, and finally my nose. He pulls me closer and I snuggle into the crook of his neck. “Let’s stay here forever,” I say, breathing in the piney scent of him.
“Okay. We live here now.” He glances around. “We might have to subsist on old Cheetos and cereal from underneath the couch cushions.”
“I’m okay with that.”
He grins wide and uninhibited, and it takes my breath away. Then he kisses me on the corner of my mouth, then my chin, his lips pressing more soft touches to my skin, until our mouths meet again, a gentle pressure that goes on until I don’t know where I end and he begins.
When you’re a business owner, there’s no such thing as the weekend. Even on Sunday, I’m busy baking ahead to freeze, scheduling requests for catering into an already packed calendar, posting on social media with specials for the week…all while making sure I can pay my bills, and doing laundry in the creepy basement of my building. Laundry is the last thing I want to do, but I also don’t want to stink if I happen to make out and fall asleep with Guy again. I shift in the rickety lawn chair that lives in the basement next to the washing machine and balance my laptop on my knees.
The thought of making out with Guy sends shivers up my spine and straight to my lady bits.
I can’t believe we fell asleep on his couch together, wrapped up in each other, a cocoon of perfect bliss. We were awoken at 2 a.m. by Emma walking around the apartment, and then Guy ordered me an Uber.
I slept for a few hours and then woke up to get some work done. I should be exhausted, but I’m oddly energetic. Like the mere thought of Guy is a jolt to my system, an extra dose of caffeine straight to the veins.
Maybe I shouldn’t be so lighthearted about this. Maybe I should be worried as I go through all my bills and expenses. After paying Fred’s part-time wage, I’m barely squeaking by. I used trust money from my parents to purchase the truck, but that’s nearly depleted since I’ve also had to use some of it for regular living expenses. It goes quick in New York City, even if you aren’t living in a penthouse.
And asking my parents for more money? No way. They can’t bother themselves to call me. They don’t care at all about my life. They never have. I would rather move back to Blue Falls and deal with all the shame of failure than ever ask them for one red cent.
Maybe I need to think more about if Guy is going to really try and make me go elsewhere, just in case. Where else could we go? To be fair, he did say he would find something for me, but what if he can’t? I mean, can this really end well?
He’s the worst person for me to…have feelings for. Then again, every other man I’ve dated in my short laugh has seemed like the perfect match and look how well those relationships ended up. Maybe not-perfect is exactly what I need.
Despite all of the potential landmines between us, I can’t stop thinking about him and wondering what he’s doing.
I respond to some messages on social media and then stare off into space at the concrete wall of the laundry room. Compared to Guy’s apartment, this place is a real dump. These machines are from before I was born and most of them only dry halfway even if you run them through two cycles, and the quarter slots don’t always work properly.
Not that I can complain, having a roof over my head and being able to afford it in the city in a not-terrible neighborhood is an accomplishment in and of itself.
My phone dings with a text. I pick up my phone.
Fred: According to the doc I am now fit for public consumption. I can come in tomorrow.
Me: Are you ever fit for public consumption? That’s questionable.
Phone dings again, and I think it’s Fred responding but when I pick up the phone, it’s an unfamiliar number.
Hey. It’s Guy. Carson told me to tell you that he didn’t give me your number.
I laugh, suddenly breathless. My thumbs hover over the keyboard, heart pulsing a giddy tune in my chest.
Me: He’s not doing that sort of thing a lot lately.
Guy: It would be annoying if it weren’t so opportune.
What are you doing today?
Me: Oh, you know, living the dream.
I take a picture of my crossed legs propped up on the old washing machine and attach it to the message. Visible in the photo are my old ripped up jeans and converse, both of which are not a major contrast to the decrepit walls behind the beat-up washing machine that I think was manufactured in 1983.
Me: What about you? I type in and press send.
He sends a picture back. He’s got a goopy green face mask on. Behind him, Emma and Ava have matching green faces and they’re all making faces at the camera.
I burst out laughing.
Me: Wow.
Guy: Yeah, I get pampered a lot since I live with two women.
I grin at my phone, and another message comes through.
Guy: You working at your truck tomorrow?
Me: Yes.
Guy: Maybe I’ll see you.
I bite my lip. Not if I see you first!
No, that’s lame. I hit the backspace until the words are gone. I hope you do.
Ugh. I delete that one, too. I end up sending a smiley emoji. I’m so lame.
The next morning I’m a jumble of excitement and anticipation when I pick the truck up from the commissary and drive it over to the spot.
Guy’s car isn’t outside when I arrive, but it’s early. I park the truck, turn on the generator and get to work. It’s silly for me to be all, I don’t know, expecting something romantic. Like him, waiting with a flower in his teeth. Naked. I shake my head. I’ve lost it.
I shove all naked Guy thoughts out of my head and make a valiant attempt to keep busy prepping cakes, doing inventory, and making coffee until the back-door swings opens a couple hours later.
It’s Fred. “Hey, I need help with the very vegan vanilla frost—” I cut off when she removes her sunglasses, pushing them to the top of her head.
“Fred?” She’s stopped the doorway, wearing another fandom shirt I don’t understand, this one has two guys in a car, and it reads, Driver picks the music shotgun shuts his cakehole. Her eyes are red and swollen.
“Are you still sick?”
“No. I feel much better.” Her voice is strange and stilted. “Thank you.” And then she bursts into tears.