Marrying Up (24 page)

Some Like It Hot

T
he 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 paintbrush….”

“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…”