Can't Get Enough of Your Love (20 page)

And they all showed up at my door swinging.

Wait a minute.

They all showed up.

They all came to me.

I didn't scare them away.

Karl came to tell me about a deal that would keep him home with me. Juan Carlos came to take me to see his mama. Roger came to ask me to marry him.

They all came to me.

Oh, this is messed up! In solidifying our “love square” by forcing the issue, I ruined it!

And I'm out of toilet paper except for several partial rolls in the bathroom closet. I hope I have some paper towels downstairs, just in case.

“Maybe all this is for the best,” Izzie says.

What the hell? “How? How is
any
of this for the best?”

She sighs. “You know I tried to seduce Karl last night, and he wouldn't budge. I tried everything short of doing a striptease. That man loved you, Lana.”

Time to get those paper towels.

“And at that moment, I hated you, Lana. I've been looking for a man who would love me that much, and you had
three
men who loved you like that. It wasn't
fair. And I envied you for that. Girl, you know exactly what you want in a man.”

Which doesn't make sense, but then again it does.

“I've never been able to make up my mind,” Izzie says. “Not many women know what you know about men.”

Or know and feel what I'm feeling right now.

“It's so weird, though. I just finished reading an article about breakups.”

Oh joy.

“They say it takes half as long as the relationship lasted for a person to fully recover.”

Who measures this shit? What, do they (whoever “they” are) go around talking to the newly heartbroken and ask them, “Let us know when you're over so-and-so. We're crunching some numbers for our next article.” As if any woman knows when she's finally over a man.

“Are you doing the math, Lana?”

“No. Why?”

“I just want to know how long I should avoid you.”

“Why?”

“Because you are going to be a bitch.”

“Ha, ha.” But she's right again. “Let's see … I should be over Roger by the end of next month, Juan Carlos by the end of July, and Karl by the middle of September.”

“Have a nice summer,” Izzie says.

I groan.

“Just kidding. Can I ask you one question?”

“Sure.”

“What if one or more of them wants you back anyway? They may have all left tonight, but one or more of them might come back.”

Only in my dreams. “None of them will want me, Izzie. Not after what just happened.”

“I don't know. That kind of love doesn't evaporate overnight.”

“It might.”

“You can always stalk them.”

She's pissing me off! “I'm on crutches, Izzie! How am I going to stalk them?”

“Stalk slowly, then.” She giggles.

I giggle, too. It
was
kind of funny.

“Well, let's say all the love you have for these men is still there. Will you take him or
them
back?”

I wipe my face with my free hand. “They're not coming back.”

“But what if just one came back? Who would you want him to be?”

I don't want to think about this. If I couldn't choose which one man to be with, I sure as hell can't choose which one man I want to have come back. “I don't know, Izzie.”

“Oh!” she shouts.

“What is it?”

“I have a call on my other line. What do I do?”

“What?”

“I've never had this happen before.”

Geez. Izzie needs to get a life. “Hit the flash button.”

“The flash button … Oh, okay.”

And Izzie disappears without saying “Can you hold, please?”

Sure. Whatever. I can hold. I'll be holding myself for a while, right? I can hold.

Five minutes later, she comes back on. “Um, Lana, I really feel bad for you, but I have to go. I'll call you soon, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And did you mean what you said about Sunday?”

I don't want to see anyone, and I don't want anyone to see me. “Let's hold off on that for a while, okay? I need some time alone to think.” About all that went wrong.

“I understand. Take care.”
Click
.

How do I “take care”? About all I want to do is take more Motrin, take a month-long nap, and take some time to cry.

This house is so quiet. I wonder if I can stand myself. Yesterday, I had three men wanting me, and today …

Today I have only me, myself, and I.

I am such lousy company.

T
here's no denying it.

Izzie has to be right.

They
will
be back.

That phone will ring off the hook all day, and I'll be giving
my
flash button a workout. And in a little while, I'll be flashing my girls and my good leg at probably all three of them—one at a time, of course.

Oh sure, they will be angry for a spell, but then they
will
be at my door in no time at all, maybe soon.

I ease out of bed, blinking at the sunrise. I had better get ready for all my gentlemen callers.

I shower for a long time, shaving my legs closer than I've ever shaved them before. I bathe in lotion, drowning my girls with some of my “good” cologne. I call in sick to Patrick Henry (“bad cramps this time,” I tell the secretary) and hobble down to the kitchen to make some Chex mix. All three of my men—who'll be here first?—
love
this stuff because I use real butter, never margarine. I'll have to make more than I've ever made before.

They're all going to be hungry.

While the Chex mix is warming in the oven, I call Dial-a-Horoscope to find out how their days will go, something I do from time to time. Karl, a Libra, is supposed to “pursue love and romance.” Here I am, Karl! Come and get your love! I'll be here all day! Juan Carlos is an Aries, and as long as he doesn't use “aggression” today, he's supposed to be able to “charm anyone” into seeing things his way. Juan Carlos, come charm me, you Mexican Prince Charming, you! I'm ready to be charmed, and if you want to get aggressive, I'll be ready! I don't like the sound of Roger's horoscope at all. He's a Taurus. It says, “The less time spent dealing with personal matters today, the better.”

Well, I am not a “personal matter”—I'm his boo.

I bet they all feel guilty for leaving me. I know that
I
would feel guilty for leaving someone with a swollen ankle in her time of need.

Karl will feel guilty for not paying close enough attention to me all these months. He'll get down on his knees and beg me to take him back. I'll let him stew a bit, of course, and then tell him, “Only if you're good to me, boo, and only if you stay in town.” He will cry tears of joy and say, “I promise, Peanut.”

Hmm. But do I want Karl to come back to me? He actually wanted to use my place for a fake-shit depository. I may have to let Karl stew for a couple
days
.

Juan Carlos will feel guilty about not letting me meet his sainted mama sooner. He'll be back with a rose and a song, begging for one more chance. I'll let him wait outside a while (and I hope it rains!) before telling him, “Only if you let me be me, Juan Carlos.” He'll promise, of course, and make mad, passionate love to me until I say stop.

Hmm. But do I want Juan Carlos to come back to
me? He probably still doesn't think I'm good enough to meet his mama. I may have to turn Juan Carlos away for at least a week or two.

Roger … hmm. Roger will feel guilty about not saying anything, for not fighting for me, for withdrawing that ring from its rightful place on my finger. He'll be back with that ring, begging me to take it. “Only if you take my last name, Roger,” I will say with authority, because “Lana Joy McDowell” does not have a nice ring to it. “I promise,” he, the future Roger
Cole
, will say. And we'll just have to have a long engagement so I can ease away from the other two. Maybe … a four-year engagement. That would work.

Hmm. But do I want Roger to come back? He's an Indian giver! He offers marital bliss, then steals it away! I may have to tell Roger to take a long hike for at least a month.

Yeah, they'll be back.

I check my phone for the one hundred ninety-ninth time in the past hour.

I had better charge up my phone. It's going to have a busy night.

Yep, they'll be back.

There's no denying it.

I
am so pissed!

They didn't call me at
all
yesterday, and I've had to take another day off, another
unpaid
day off “with the cramps” to wait for them to come to their senses.

What are they thinking?
Are
they thinking? Do they think I'm made of money or something? Why haven't they called? What could they possibly be doing that's more important than I am?

And why is my lower leg so shiny and blue?

Pain is shooting up my leg.

Shit.

Did I break it?

Nah. It's just a sprain from hell.

I'll deal with that later. That's not important.

I have another ankle.

I look out the window for the fiftieth time in the past hour, but nothing stirs the dusty driveway.

Why me, God? I was just doing what men have been doing to women since the world began. If it's okay for them, why can't it be okay for me? Men, the pigs, have
been catting around like dogs since you made them, slithering around like snakes and howling like wolves
.

Would a city girl use all those animals to describe men? I bet she wouldn't. We country girls know our animals, and we definitely know our men.

So what gives, God? Aren't we all supposed to be equal in your sight? Aren't we all your children? Why are you treating me like an unwanted stepchild, then? Why are men your favorites when we are so much prettier? Oh sure, you created Adam first, big deal. You had to create Adam first because he would have been late or gotten lost being second! And you had to create Eve because you knew Adam was going to mess things up. That's all women are to you: fixers of the problems men create. We're the long-suffering ones. We're the deprived ones. We're the abused, used, and discarded ones. Not men, no. They're allowed to drop their fluids whenever, wherever, and with whomever they want! It's so unfair!

God is a jerk because he's a man.

I open the window and shout, “You jerk!”

Hmm. It's not wise to challenge God by calling him a jerk.

I lean out and look up into the sky. “Sorry.”

I close the window.

“But you're still a jerk,” I whisper.

Who else can I blame for this mess?

Who else
can't
I blame for this mess?

Hmm. I can blame society for being such a prude. Yeah. It's society's fault. A woman is allowed to be happy, a woman is allowed to feel pleasure, but society says, “No way, sister, you just lie there, take it, and be miserable.” Society sucks. Society can kiss my black ass.

What's left of my black ass. I'm losing weight? Oh yeah, I haven't eaten in a while.

Now what was I saying? Oh yeah. Society. Society says a woman is to go through school quietly, not take math and science seriously, not play sports but be girly, not do anything but stand by her man and make babies. Society says a woman must look gorgeous at all times, yet as soon as we do something “man-like,” like Martha Stewart, they use our gender and our beauty against us. A woman, dressing as provocatively as all those ads scream for us to dress, gets raped, and all the damn lawyers can say is that “she was dressed provocatively, and she was asking for it.” We're damned if we do, and we're damned if we don't. A man screws two thousand women, and we put him in the Basketball Hall of Fame. A woman screws two thousand men, and society calls her a “ho.”

Who else, who else …

Oh yeah. Number 39, the bitch. You can kiss my black ass, too. If you hadn't tackled me with your big, fat head inside that helmet, Roger wouldn't have even been here taking care of me. We would have had some fun after the game, but he would not have spent the night, instead leaving long before Karl came over. I would have been better rested, I wouldn't have let Karl go see his trucker, and I wouldn't have weeded out Juan Carlos at all.

Damn, that ankle's misshapen. And I can't afford getting an X-ray! Why did I tell Mama to take me off her health plan?

Shit.

Ooh, I am going to hurt number 39 next year, you wait and see. She's going to have a torn knee ligament from me—for
both
her knees. The only thing she'll be
able to do is crawl. Yeah. I'll use her to wipe off my cleats. I'll use her as a footstool. I'll make sure she never says anything about anybody's mama again!

Juan Carlos, why did you hang up on me? Why didn't you let me finish breaking up with you? You didn't have to come all the way out here. It wouldn't have come out any differently in person. If you hadn't run your Mexican ass out in your mama's broken-ass car, I could have saved the day. I could have gotten Roger out of the house by saying “my half brother Karl” doesn't like white people. I would have told Karl that “Mr. Wilson” was fixing my sink or something. I could have played it all off! I
know
I could have pulled that off. But no, Juan Carlos, you had to come up in my yard cussing in Spanish and fussing about the damn alternator in your mama's broken-ass car.

And Roger, why the hell did you take the day off? People get buried on Mondays, don't they? I'm sure several dead people didn't get planted because you were here. I was managing my affairs just fine. I have lived twenty-five years without you. Why would I suddenly need you just a few hours after you left me swimming in my own juices after that erotic phone call?