The U-Haul rolls away with George and her two Ikea bookcases, a closet’s worth of new clothes and the only thing her mothers had agreed to send her from Buffalo: Her signed life-size cutout of Lieutenant Uhura. (I told my mom about it recently and even e-mailed her a picture, thinking she might be interested in making an offer, but she coolly informed me that Star Trek memorabilia was an entire industry unto itself and ridiculously overpriced, to boot).
I wave after her like an idiot while Remy snickers behind me.
“Do you mind? I’m trying to have a moment here.”
“Somehow I don’t think this is the last time you’ll be seeing each other.”
“We’re having lunch tomorrow, for your information, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t the end of an era—my little girl is leaving home. I can’t help but be a little nostalgic.”
He sighs and pulls up the bottom of his T-shirt to wipe his forehead. “Come inside. It’s disgusting out here.”
Only if you promise to do that again.
“Hello? Earth to Holly?”
“I’m fine. I think I’ll just sit and cool off on the porch for a while.”
“Cool off ? Are you insane? It’s ninety degrees in the shade!”
Ahh. Summertime in San Francisco. Probably quite nice, if it wasn’t for the garbage strike.
“Suit yourself. But I’m going in—there’s a six-pack in the fridge calling my name….”
“A six-pack?”
An hour later, Remy and I are lying on his bed for all the wrong reasons—because it’s beneath the only ceiling fan in the house. Air-conditioning for the Wakefield manor isn’t on the agenda until next summer.
“I’m a charity case,” I tell him as he passes me another beer. “I know that. But I do have my pride, and I don’t want to feel like I owe you for every little thing. Or feel guilty if you see me come home with a new pair of shoes or something. Because I’d rather move out than deal with that. Capiche?”
We’re discussing the details of our new arrangement. I am simultaneously dreading it and looking forward to it at the same time. It’s basically the same deal as when George and I first moved in, only in exchange for the cheap rent, now I will be working full-time and helping Remy with the renovations every spare moment I have. So I’ll be exhausted and permanently sweaty on the one hand, but I’ll also be able to enjoy the pleasure of his company almost every day. (Maybe, just maybe, Remy will even work shirtless! Oh, the possibilities…)
“For the tenth time, Holly, you don’t have any pride. But that’s besides the point. And technically, you’re not a charity case, either. It’s not like I’m doing you the biggest favor in the world, you know—you’ll be my employee. I’m even thinking I might write you off as a tax deduction.”
“Aw, I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Nope—just you. And if it makes you feel any better, I’m going to put your rent back up the second you get a raise.”
“…or when pigs fly.”
“Whichever comes first. Or you might sell your book. Then I’d be asking you for a loan!”
I sit up. “I’ll pay you back, Remy, I promise. I already owe my dad thousands of dollars, but I’ll move you right to the top of my list of creditors….”
“I didn’t mean it like that. This isn’t a loan. It’s just a reversion clause in our lease. And frankly, having you stay makes more sense for me…the thought of having to find a new tenant right now is a complete nightmare.”
“And here I thought you enjoyed my company.”
“Not so much. So quit slacking off and grab a paint-brush….”
“Forget it!” I say. “It’s way too hot for fumes.”
“Fine. First thing tomorrow, though.”
“I don’t get Sundays off ?”
“Ha! You would never respect me as a boss if I agreed to that. Don’t try and take advantage of me just because we’re friends.”
“So…we’re friends?”
Oh, God. Did I really just say that?
The combination of heat and alcohol has me playing fast and loose with my heart. Since Buffalo, once I realized how I felt about him, I’ve resolved not to discuss our relationship or even allude to it, since I figure I’ll probably say something so lame and obvious that he’ll figure out I’m in love with him, an incredibly humiliating prospect from which no good can possibly come. Yes, the thought of him letting me down easy is about a thousand times worse than lusting after him in secret for all eternity.
“Of course we’re friends! Why? You’d prefer we were enemies?”
“No,” I laugh. “But I’m glad you think so, too. I’ve always believed that men and women can be friends without…you know.”
Okay, now I’m really pushing it. If he even remotely senses I’m trying to see if he likes me, I will shrivel up and die. But somehow I can’t help myself. It’s like watching a car wreck, only I am the sadomasochistic lunatic behind the wheel.
“So, men and women can be friends, huh?”
“Sure. As long as there’s no chemistry. Like me and Asher. He’s one of my best friends. Always will be. But only because there was never anything, you know, going on between us.”
“Can I tell you something, then? As a friend?”
“Sure.”
Please, please, please don’t break my heart…
“What I want to say is this…”
He pauses and looks into my eyes.
“What, Remy?”
“Holly, what I want to say is…grab a paintbrush. Seriously. The kitchen still needs another coat. Oh, and make sure you cover the counters—I just put ’em in. If you spill so much as a drop…let’s just say it won’t be pretty. I’m going to take a nap….”
“Not a chance! Friends don’t let friends drink and paint. And while we’re on the subject, would you mind going downstairs and getting me another beer? I want a cold one.”
“Forget it!”
“Come on, be a gentleman.”
“You’ve had enough, m’lady…”
He’s right. One more beer and I’ll be professing my love in song.
“…and speaking of gentlemen, or whatever passes for gentlemen these days, how’s your attorney doing? Did he miss you while you were away?”
Great. Just what I want to talk about. Remy still doesn’t know about my delightful marriage proposal. I left town two days later and was mortified at the thought of admitting it to anyone besides George. Nor was I in any rush to broadcast the fact that my sex appeal apparently extends only to desperate bicycle messengers and gay men. Not exactly the kind of image I want to project to a guy who is out of my league to begin with.
Then again, since courtship obviously isn’t on the menu for us, friendship is the next best thing. I might as well get used to it. And friends are supposed to tell each other things. Remy trusted me enough to open up to me about Sylvia, after all, so why should I keep anything from him, no matter how embarrassing? He’s a good listener, he obviously has some insight into people, and maybe it would be good to get a guy’s perspective on the whole horrible experience…
But before I can answer Remy’s question, tell him all about Vale and what had happened, the doorbell rings. He rolls off the end of the mattress and walks over to the window. “It’s the guy for the plumbing estimate. He wasn’t supposed to be here till four. Probably can’t wait to tell me how much two hundred feet of copper pipe is gonna cost me.” He shakes his head in disgust. “These guys are no fools! They know I have to do copper…. Damn city! They won’t approve anything else in these old places even though PVC is just as good and…”
I manage to peel myself off the mattress and follow him downstairs while his rant branches out into the corruption of municipal politics, the evils of contractors in general, why plumbers and electricians in particular are the bane of his existence, and so on and so forth.
I’ll admit it—what he’s saying isn’t overly interesting; his tirades rarely are. But there’s something about the way he blabs on and on about whatever happens to be bothering him or inspiring him or distracting him at the moment that I find totally attractive. It’s proof that he’s a passionate man.
“…and get this—the last plumber who came out here pulled up in a Hummer. A fucking Hummer! Can you believe that? Plumbers, man. I tell ya…”
“Remy?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going down to my place. I think it might be half a degree cooler in the basement.”
“Sure. Come up later? We’ll do pizza or something.”
“Okay. Good luck with the plumber.”
He shoots me an as-if look and goes to answer the door.
Downstairs, everything looks exactly the same (of course it does—all the furniture is mine!) but just knowing George’s room is empty makes my heart ache. I sit down at the kitchen table with a pile of mail. Phone bill, cable bill, another “No Thanks” letter from a publisher…
Frankly, I’m impressed by how quick and efficient the publishers have been at stuffing my S.A.S.E.s with the bad news; it had taken far less time than I expected for the rejections to start rolling in. At first, I was a little disheartened. The more I thought about it, though, the more certain I became that I was meant to write an entirely different book, anyway.
The real problem with the mail that has piled up while I was away is the bills. Without George’s half of everything, even with reduced rent, it actually looks like I might be going broke in the not-too-distant future. When I notice the interest charge on my Visa bill, I briefly consider calling Vale and setting a date for the wedding. Being a writer-philanthropist with a gay husband would surely be better than this!
I get out the calculator and crunch some numbers. For one very dark moment—even darker than the moment I considered calling Vale—I think about moving home, living with my parents while I get back on my feet. But then I remember my room and how sleeping there had literally been one long nightmare. Philadelphia is a better option. It’s a lot less expensive than San Francisco, and a fresh start might do me some good. But damn it, I like it here. And leaving every time things get hard is a pattern I can’t afford to develop, both because of short-term moving costs and the even greater expense long-term therapy might incur.
Fortunately, I don’t have to decide anything just yet. I take a long, cool shower and flop down onto my bed. I’m not generally a napper, but the heat and the beer soon lull me away to a better place….
When I wake, it’s already dark, but still hot as hell. I throw on some shorts and a tank top (there’s no point in hiding it from him anymore—I am a 34 A on a good day and bras for me are obviously strictly ornamental). I drag myself up the back stairs and into the kitchen.
Remy is on the phone with his mother. He must have just taken a shower because his hair is wet and his T-shirt is clean. Since he hasn’t gotten around to buying an actual table and chairs, he’s sitting on the newly installed granite countertop, his legs dangling over the side. I try not to stare at his bulging quads as I push past him on my way to the fridge.
While I poke around and try to find something to eat, he discusses with his mother at length her concerns about his grandmother and her sciatica, someone named Helen’s upcoming cataract surgery and his father’s plans to build a new toolshed. After a great deal of eye-rolling and promising to go home to San Diego for a visit during Labor Day weekend, he finally manages to hang up.
“Sorry. The older she gets, the harder it is to get off the phone with her. She goes on and on, repeating the same things over and over. I can only assume she doesn’t know she’s doing it. My father must have the patience of Job.”
I love that he’s nice to his mother. “It’s okay. You’re a mama’s boy. You don’t have to apologize.”
“Don’t push me, woman.”
“Forget that. I’m starving.” I hop up beside him onto the counter. “Ah—cool on the backside. Good idea.”
He reaches across my lap for the stack of dog-eared delivery menus. Even though I’ve definitely slept off my beer buzz, having his skin so close to mine leaves me a little woozy.
“Pizza or Chinese?”
Our eyes meet.
“Both!”
Over yet another delightful meal from Chang’s Italian Gardens, I tell him all about what happened with Vale. Had I known the crashing and burning of my personal life made such fabulous dinner conversation, I might have told him sooner. I think Remy pretty much guesses where the story is going once I get to Vale’s less-than-convincing response to my big “Am I Sexy?”question, because he can barely contain his laughter from that point on. Granted, I embellish the good parts a little, adding a horrified gasp or a dramatic sob here and there, so that the whole thing actually ends up sounding a hell of a lot funnier than it seemed to me at the time. I should have known the only thing Remy would enjoy more than being right about my boyfriend being so wrong was listening to a blow-by-blow account of me learning it for myself. Who could blame him? I’d definitely failed to see the signs.
“So…not quite the proposal you’d imagined, huh?”
“I imagined the Fred Leighton part, all right…”
“Who?”
“He’s a jeweler…never mind.”
“Just chalk it up to experience and move on. That’s my advice.”
“I just can’t believe how willing I was to deceive myself for something…something I don’t even want! I can totally see that now, by the way, in case you were thinking of making fun of me some more.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t. You’ve suffered enough.”
“Thanks. And to make matters worse, this whole thing has really done a number on my self-esteem!”
“Yeah…I’ve been kinda wondering about that. Why are you so down on yourself ? Don’t you think you deserve a decent guy?”
“Of course I do,” I sigh, and attempt to condense the past ten years of my social life into two or three sentences. “But I don’t exactly have the best luck with men. My only real boyfriend, this guy Jim, was a real loser. And that was, like, a decade ago, anyway, so I guess being single for so long…well, after a while, you just begin to think it’s not the guys, but you. I mean, me. Oh, you know what I mean…But I am picky. Or I was, anyway. Too picky. So I guess it is the guys, too…”
“Whoa. Hold up—you didn’t get any play between Jim and Vale? Nothing? Wow. That is a long time. Was it…intentional?”
Great. Now he thinks I’m one of those born-again virgins. “For heaven’s sake, Remy. I’m not a complete nerd. Of course I’ve had, uh, some action. There were a few short-term things, just nothing serious…”
He scratches his head. “Nope. Don’t buy it.”
“Excuse me?”
“It takes more than one putz and a dry spell here and there to inflict the kind of psychological damage and self-sabotage you seem to labor beneath.”
“You really like to think you know it all, don’t you? Okay, Mr. Minor in Psychology. Fine. You wanna know my dirty little secret?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
“It all goes back to when I was twelve…”
“Cripes…is this gonna be another one of those tragic first-kiss stories?”
“Do you want to hear it or not?”
“Sorry. Go on.”
“There was this guy…and yes—he was the first guy I ever kissed. It was awful. I almost bit his tongue off and there was all this blood and so of course he had to go and tell everyone I was a hermaphrodite and that’s why I had no boobs and, well, high school pretty much got worse from there.”
“Okay, that’s pretty bad,” he chuckles.
“Suffice it to say I’m pretty sure that’s what made me so self-conscious about my chest.”
His eyes go right to where my boobs should be. “Your chest? What’s wrong with your chest?”
“Oh, shut up. So now you understand why this whole Vale-being-gay thing has thrown me for such a loop….”
“I don’t get it. What does one have to do with the other?”
“Maybe the only reason Vale liked me to begin with or chose me or whatever…it’s because I’m flat! Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to keep it up long enough for us to make babies, see? I bet he was pretending I was Brad Pitt while we were—”
“Hold it,” he interrupted, shaking his head in disbelief. “That is so wrong on so many levels, I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Really?”
“First of all, Brad Pitt definitely has bigger pecs than you.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Remy, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“Okay, fine. What I mean is…let me see…how should I put this? Well, to quote another great man, ‘Anything bigger than a handful, you’re risking a sprained thumb. ’”
“Anthony Michael Hall,” I sigh. “Weird Science.”
“Damn, you’re good.”
“You just don’t understand what it’s like, being permanently self-conscious, feeling like you’re being judged all the time for something that’s totally beyond your control. This is a breast-centric, world, Remy—you can’t deny it. Even my brothers called me Wall-y Holly! It’s a world where Hooters is the hottest restaurant in town, where women torture themselves to look like magazine covers. I’m so damn tired of it…. We pay men to surgically insert silicone volleyballs into our chests and we spend a trillion dollars on miracle diets and then we eat ourselves into oblivion to numb the pain of failing to be perfect! It’s…it’s infuriating! And if you somehow manage to evolve beyond it all…well, just when you think you’ve accepted yourself, love yourself for the way you are, a gay guy comes along to play on your insecurities and pretend to love you and then wants to hire you to be his wife!”
“By ‘you,’ you don’t actually mean me, do you?”
I manage a weak laugh, but my eyes are filling with tears. “Sorry to rant. I just don’t want to be controlled by these superficial things anymore. I resent all the time and energy I’ve wasted on them.”
“Look, Holly. I do understand what you’re saying. It sucks being liked—or disliked—for the wrong reasons, whether they’re perceived or real. I do know what that feels like. Who the hell doesn’t? But half the time it’s all in your own head, anyway. Like, everyone has something they think weighs them down, whether it’s a flat chest or an empty bank account or the brain of a rocket scientist trapped in a supermodel’s body. You just have to surround yourself with people who like you fine the way you are and not get too worked up about the ones who don’t.”
“In theory, sure. But it’s hard to not let these kinds of things affect you. And even though you know how much it hurts, it’s also hard not to judge other people in exactly the same way they judge you.”
“Of course it’s hard. Most people can’t do it. That’s why the world is overrun with assholes and idiots. But at least you’re trying.”
“I was an asshole, too,” I murmur.
Can I blame Vale for offering me exactly what I wanted? I never really liked him all that much and I was willing to be with him, anyway, and not just for the sake of “research.” I now understood what Jill saw in Boyfriend—a chance to not be alone. Vale’s proposal was a twisted variation on that theme. Was it fair to hold him or anyone else to a higher standard than I held myself ?
“You sure were,” he agrees. “But there’s hope for you yet.”
“So what’s your hideous flaw, Mr. Perfect?”
“Hmmm…I don’t know…maybe my calves? They’re a little smaller than I’d like. But are you gonna throw the babe out with the bathwater?” He flexes them for my benefit and flashes me his best smile.
“You’re right. They’re hideous. And your bottom teeth are crooked, too.”
“Yes, but they give me character.”
“I just feel like I’ve spent a lot of time, too much time, wishing I were rich, wishing I were beautiful, you know? It’s a waste of energy. I’m ready to let it all go.”
“You are beautiful. You must know that.”
“I know I’m okay. But I’m not exactly drop-dead gorgeous….”
He turns my chin toward him. “Yes, you are. Well, maybe not to everyone…but so what? You are to me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Are you serious?”
Oooh!
Before I can think of something ridiculous to say that will ruin everything, he leans in and kisses me. And before it’s over, I know that if I had to choose one moment to live over and over again for the rest of my life, this would be it.
He pulls away and smiles.
“Wow,” I say.
“Wow,” he agrees.
“My heart…”
He puts his hand on my chest. “I feel it.”
“Wow,” I say again.
“You said that already.”
“I guess I don’t know what else to say.”
“Say you’ll come upstairs with me.”
“Uh, okay.”
He hops down from the counter and turns to face me, putting his hands on my hips. “Are you sure you want to?”
“Uh, yeah. I mean yes. Yes, I want to…”
He kisses me again and I try my best to kiss him back like I mean it (the first time, I think I was a little stunned, so it probably wasn’t my best work). I open my eyes for a second, just to make sure I’m not dreaming.
The kitchen glows and I definitely feel like I’m in a dream sequence…or is it the subtle recessed lighting we installed together earlier this week? In the corner, near the door to the backyard, is the tile cutter I almost sliced my finger off with last month. I remove my hand from the back of Remy’s neck and hold it up to check for the scar. It’s still there, angry and pink, despite weeks of slathering it with vitamin E.
Nope! Definitely not dreaming.
I slide off the edge of the counter and press up against him, wrapping my arms around his waist. We kiss some more, just standing there, until at last I completely forget myself and there’s nothing in my mind but the kissing. Which is quickly becoming quite a bit more than just kissing….
“So…”
“Yeah.”
He leads me through the dining room, past the walls we’d put up, into the living room, where we’d argued about the height of a chair rail, then up the stairs I’d sanded and stained and varnished and then re sanded and re stained and re varnished because the color was half a shade off. The second floor is a mess; not much has changed since I first saw it six months earlier. Aside from the bathroom, there’s only one room with walls…but it’s the best room of all. The only room that matters. Remy’s bedroom.
I walk up to the window while he goes over to the bed and sits down. I have no idea what time it is, but the moon is high and it lights up the room.
“Did you ever notice the trim on the house across the street?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“I like it.”
“So do I. What’s your point?”
“No point.”
“Then come over here.”
“Okay,” I say. But I can’t move. Remy is so gorgeous to begin with that in the moonlight he appears almost divine. The perfect angles of his face, his lonely gray eyes, the straight lines of his nose and chin and cheeks take me aback every single time I see him, and tonight is no different, except that I am on the verge of seeing the rest of him as well. What on earth could this heavenly creature possibly want with me? But my cheeks still burn from his stubble, and there he sits, waiting for me to join him.
“Nothing.”
“We don’t have to rush.”
I breathe out my fear and try to be as honest as I can. “If this is a…a pity thing, Remy, then I don’t want it.”
He flops back dramatically onto the mattress. “Watch it, Holly. Or I might change my mind.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” I say and turn back to the window.
He sighs. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was just teasing. You know you’d be the one doing me the honor.”
“No…”
“Of course!” He gets up off the bed and comes over to the window. “You’re a beautiful creature. I’ve been pining for you for months. I was just waiting for you to be single again so I could make my move. And the second you told me, I did!”
“Yeah, right.”
He shakes his head. “Why won’t you believe me?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?”
“No.”
“Well, then why stop believing me now?”
I glance over at the bed. “Hmm…could it be…?”
“Okay, I’ll admit that I’m more than a little, uh, ready, right now, but I’m not the kind of guy who’d trick a girl into the sack by lying to her. That said, I sure as hell ain’t gonna beg you either…”
Him beg me? I giggle at the mere thought of it.
“You’re killing me, Holly. You’re fucking killing me.”
“Okay, okay,” I say and kiss him quickly. Broken heart be damned—this guy is worth the risk. “But can I ask you something first?”
“Sure.”
“Will this be the first time for you since…”
He looks at me uneasily, not quite sure what I mean.
“Since, you know…your wife?”
“God, no!”
“Oh. Okay. Of course…”
He must have guessed that I am blushing, because he touches my cheek with the back of his hand. “I mean, I don’t exactly sleep around, but I’ve had some action. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’m not disappointed. I’ve just never seen you with anybody, that’s all.”
“So you’ve been keeping track of my comings and goings?”
“Maybe a little,” I admit. “You’re surprised?”
“Not really. You’re pretty easy to read. I knew you wanted me the second we met.” He moves back over to the bed and lies down, and this time, I follow him. “Am I right?”
“Yeah.”
“See?” He smiles and begins kissing my neck. “I’m irresistible…”
“So, I guess you wanted me right away, too, then?”
“No.”
“Hey!”
“Don’t worry—it didn’t take too long. You can’t deny there’s some pretty good sexual tension between us.”
“Well, yeah. But I just assumed it was one-sided.”
He kisses me again, and thankfully I’m already lying down because I surely would have swooned.
“It doesn’t feel like that if it’s only one-sided.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Holly…”
“Yes, Remy?”
“Can we stop talking now?”
I nod my head and smile.