Marrying Up (25 page)

“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.

“What’s the matter?”

“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.

Alone in the Wilderness of Despair

F
or an entire week, I avoid Remy like the plague. I tell no one, not even George, what has happened between us. I know I’m in love—in love for the first time!—but I also know that I’d better get over it before I make the mistake of thinking it will end well. Do I regret sleeping with him? Of course not. It was the best night of my life. I do regret getting my hopes up, though, since I am now in the unenviable position of having to deprogram myself and move on.

In case you’re thinking, there she goes again—letting her dark side, her melodrama, ruin a perfectly good thing, let me set you straight: During the delicious three-and-a-half hours between first contact and when the bubble finally burst, I believed Remy Wakefield and I actually had a chance. More than that, even… I was thinking he was my
soul mate,
an appellation not to be invoked lightly, least of all by a studied cynic like me. We fit together perfectly, no
doubt about it, and there was chemistry, passion and connection to burn. So what if he’s hot and I’m not? Big deal. I’ll get over it. So what if he’s unfocused and immature? I’m just as self-deprecating and neurotic. We’d complement each other’s weaknesses and thrive on each other’s strengths.

What
was
a big deal was the one thing we couldn’t move forward without. The one thing I didn’t realize I should have been worried about all along….

Timing.

As in, I’m too late.
Way
too late.

All these years of singlehood, I’ve been worried about finding the right guy. I just never imagined how important the
when
would be, once the
who
was taken care of. Luckily, I didn’t see it until after Remy and I had slept together and it was staring me right in the face, so I didn’t miss out on the night I will surely treasure fondly as the highlight of my sex life. Thank heaven for small mercies, I suppose.

It had come out of left field, while my defenses were down. Remy and I were eating leftover chow mein in bed, sharing one pair of chopsticks and making a complete mess.

“Not a bad way to work up an appetite,” he said.

I smiled. “Just another lame Saturday night with the landlord.”

“I guess neither of us has much of a social life.”

“Nope.”

“Don’t think this gets you out of our arrangement, by the way. You start painting tomorrow at seven.”

I kicked him beneath the covers. “I don’t think so!”

“Well, maybe we could work something out in exchange for letting you sleep in a bit…”

“Isn’t that sexual harassment?”

“If you’re lucky!” He rolled over to grab the glass of water beside the bed. “You gonna report me?”

Over Remy’s heart, in the pale light coming in from the hallway, I noticed the outline of something very small, maybe the size of a quarter.
A birthmark? A rash? A third nipple?

“What’s that on your chest?” I asked, just as I realized what it was.

He froze.

It was a tattoo—a tattoo of a beach ball. With a single name written beneath it.

Sylvia

The crush of disappointment descended on me like a pall, squeezing every trace of joy from my newly opening heart in a fraction of an instant.

It wasn’t me that he loved. It was her.

It would
always
be her. And so she would be with us always, existing as a part of him. In ink, least of all.

This would never work.

During sleepless nights, I try to figure out exactly what happened, what Remy’s motivations were, and whether or not he was even aware of them. What I came up with was pretty simple.

Sex. He wanted sex.

At one point, I half wonder whether one of my brothers had got wind that I liked Remy, called him up and bet him how long it would take him to get my knickers off. Maybe they even had a little pool going back home. Fortunately, though, Mike and Bradley didn’t even know he existed, so it couldn’t possibly be their fault.

For a few days, I just chalk it up to the heat. In the city, the heat can make people crazy. Especially lonely people. It had made me crazy enough to believe that Remy really liked
me, and almost crazy enough to think I could compete with a ghost.

Yes, the simple fact is that Remy, like all guys, probably just wanted to get laid. He saw me as an easy target—tragically and recently single, living far away from friends and family—and he went for it. He could be forgiven for that. On the other hand, his flattery seemed so sincere. The oldest trick in the book. He hadn’t had a girl up there since we’d moved in, or at least none that I knew of.

He was horny. I was easy. Case closed.

Not that he was a jerk about it or anything like that. He called me the next day, and the day after that. He even came downstairs a few times, but I made sure to keep the door locked and just pretended I wasn’t home.

The last thing I wanted was for him to have to lie and give me some lame excuse about why it—
we
—could never happen again, why it was probably best that we leave it as a one-time thing. It would be humiliating. Having him think I expected more from him than a one-night stand would be far worse than pining away privately. For now, I still love him; that much is out of my hands. What I
can
control is the way I deal with it. Hopefully, in time, my feelings for Remy will melt away into harmless memories, of a kind pleasant enough to look back on and smile, without the rankle of regret and hurt and shame that still tortures me when I think about Jim. I should have seen the signs then, but I didn’t. I should have seen the signs with Vale, but I didn’t. This time, with Remy, I would. No excuses.

So until I can figure out what to say to him and gather up the courage to face him, I have to make sure I don’t completely lose my mind. More than anything, I need a distraction…a way to let the immediacy of the hurt dissipate a little
so that I’ll be able to vanquish it completely once I’m ready to revisit it….

I’ll focus my attention on my work! And I mean my
real
work, not the encyclopedia stuff (turns out researching acorns and the Acropolis isn’t as cathartic as I’d hoped). I’m a writer; of that much I’m certain. I just need to self-actualize a little. So rejections be damned! The idea of marrying for money is so totally behind me that I honestly couldn’t care less if not a single publisher was interested. Besides, the prospect of faking my way through an entire book about something so false is beyond unappealing.

Instead, I will rework the entire thing, start anew! Reopening myself to the idea of having a true soul mate—one who hasn’t already found and lost his—will coincide with my new writing project: the process of finding one. It will be unironic, nonsatirical, nonfiction. It will be truthful. It will be therapeutic. And I will be proud to let any prospective life partner know exactly what I’m writing about. If it scares him off, then he isn’t the one for me, anyway.