Secrets of a Shoe Addict (36 page)

This one showed the back of the bedroom pulled out, with the addition of a three-sided fireplace—Loreen had always wanted one—and a sitting room.

“It’s fantastic,” she breathed. “My dream house, but . . . why? I can’t afford this, and I can’t let you help. Unless . . .” Her voice trailed off. She dared not say what she was thinking: that it would all be worth it, in fact it would all be
perfect
, if he’d just come back home.

So when he said it, she wasn’t prepared.

“Funny you should mention that, because I was thinking that maybe if there was someone else living here with you, they could, you know, kick in on the bills. Maybe someone who already has an interest in you and Jacob?”

She was hopeful, but not certain. “Do you know someone like that?”

“I have someone in mind.”

“Is he just looking for a place to stay for a while or, maybe, a family for a lifetime?”

“The family.” He nodded. “Absolutely. Forever.”

Loreen pressed her lips together. “You’re talking about you, right? Moving here? I don’t want any misunderstandings.”

He moved closer and reached for her hand. “Yes, I’m talking about me. Moving here. Being a family with you and Jacob again. I love you.” He was looking tearful now.

“I love you, too,” she said, feeling her eyes burn.

“I just can’t walk away from you.” He looked uncertain for a moment. “Unless you want me to. I—” He faltered. “Loreen, I don’t want to push myself on you. I just want to be with you again.”

She wanted to believe it. She wanted to dive straight in and believe every word without question. But she was old enough, experienced
senough, and just plan cynical enough to ask questions first. “Are you sure you’re not going to change your mind later? I’m still me, you know.”

“I thank God for that. You are all that I want.”

“I want this to be true,” she said, a lame attempt to stop herself from crying
Yes!
at the top of her lungs.

“You know me,” Robert said simply. “I think you know you can believe in me.”

She did. “I do.” She swallowed over the lump in her throat. Nothing was going to dislodge it except a good, hard cry. So she said, “I do,” again, and gave in to the emotion of finally,
finally
coming home.

That was it; Sandra was finished dating. And when Tiffany, Loreen, and Abbey got a load of
this
night, they couldn’t possibly tell her to keep trying.

She’d take up a hobby, maybe sewing or crocheting or something. Get a bunch more cats. She’d be like Mrs. Exstorm, the weird old lady on the corner of Candlelight Lane and Old Coach Road, when she and Tiffany were growing up. Everyone was afraid of Mrs. Exstorm. There were stories that she was a witch who grabbed children and ate them for dinner, and that her cats were her familiars, who crept out to peer in the windows of the children late at night, scoping out victims.

The parents had said no, she was just a lonely old woman whose health wasn’t what it used to be. Sandra and Tiffany’s mom swore it was because of the millions of cats in the house. It wasn’t a healthy atmosphere for
any
of them.

“It’s hard to breathe with all that cat hair and dander flying
around,” Sandra’s mom had said. “It’s a wonder any of them are still alive.”

So Sandra would be sure to keep her cat acquisition to no more than five or six.

Kids would still talk, parents would still pity, but at least she wouldn’t die of cat hair asphyxiation.

She’d made this decision after a particularly humiliating night in which she went to Galaxy Zed to meet Kenny, aka Pullmyfinger on
Match.com
. Yes, she realized she was now scraping the bottom of the barrel if she was willing to give a shot to a guy with a handle like Pullmyfinger, but when she’d first read it, she hadn’t realized what it said. She thought it was just another nonsense screen name.

But it wasn’t a deal killer in any event—he seemed nice, he didn’t smoke, and he shared a few interests with Sandra.

It was worth a shot, as the girls had kept telling her.

But as it turned out, it had
not
been worth it. She’d gone into the restaurant, a bit nervously, and stopped at the hostess. “Hi, I’m Sandra Vanderslice and I’m supposed to be meeting a Kenny . . . something”—she was embarrassed that she didn’t know his last name—“here. Has anyone come in asking for me?”

“Um, not exactly,” the hostess said, “but
that
guy’s been sitting there alone for a while.” She pointed at a nice-looking, if ordinary, man who was sitting alone, looking around uncertainly.

“Thanks.” Sandra approached him with similar uncertainty. “Excuse me,” she said. “Are you—?”

“Yes, yes, I am.” He’d looked relieved. “I thought you weren’t going to show. Or that you had, and you’d left because you didn’t like the way I looked.” He’d laughed at that horrible possibility.

How they made it through twenty minutes of pleasant conversation
without ever actually addressing each other by name, Sandra couldn’t later say. At the time she’d thought he was a really nice guy and, while maybe not her dream man, certainly someone she could see dating for a while. In any event, it gave her hope that not everyone out there was a wacko.

That’s what she’d thought at the time.

Later, of course, all she could think about was that startling moment when he’d looked at her and asked, “So let’s get down to it. How long have you been into pony play?”

“Pony play?” Had she heard him right? “You mean, like betting on horses?”

He’d frowned. “I’m sorry . . . betting?” He’d smiled, and it was a nice smile. “I don’t get it, is that a euphemism? I’m . . sort of new to all this.”

Now she was really confused, and embarrassed because this didn’t seem like that complicated a conversation. Was there something in his profile that she’d missed? Or something in
her
profile that made it sound like she was into horseback riding or something? “Look, I’m really sorry, but I’m lost. What do you mean by
pony play
?”

He drew back like she’d slapped him. “Wait a minute, aren’t you Flicka from Ponyplayers-dot-com?”

“Flicka?”

“Manny?” A woman with long, wavy auburn hair came rushing over to the table. “Are you Manny?”

“Yes.”

Sandra looked at him. “You’re not Kenny?”

“Who’s Kenny?” Flicka asked. Then she held out her hand to Sandra. “Sorry, forgot my manners. I’m Flicka.”

“Sandra,” Sandra said in a voice that sounded like she wasn’t even
sure of her own name. This was starting to sound like “who’s on first.”

“Sandra?”
Manny asked. “I thought you were Flicka.”

“Well.” Sandra gestured haplessly. “
That’s
Flicka.”

“Yeah, I’m Flicka.”

“Apparently we got our signals crossed,” Sandra said, pinpointing at least the tip of the obvious iceberg.

Flicka looked from Sandra to Manny. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing anyone. Not that I mind or anything, but does she have a stud?”

“A
stud
?” Sandra repeated.

Manny had begun to look distinctly uncomfortable. “Wait a minute.” He held up both hands. “I think this is a misunderstanding. Are you here to meet an Internet date?” he asked Sandra.

“Yes. Kenny. Pullmyfinger?” Even as she said it, she was realizing that Kenny had nothing to do with this. “From Match-dot-com?”

Manny nodded. “I’m here to meet Flicka from Ponyplayers-dot-com. That’s who I thought you were. Obviously you thought
I
was this Kenny guy from Match-dot-com.”

“And you’re not?” She didn’t know why she said it. Clearly he was not.

“No.” He shook his head and looked at her like she was stupid.

Indeed, she was beginning to feel stupid. “So all this time, I was thinking you were Kenny, and you were thinking—”

“You were Flicka.” He pointed a finger gun at her and clicked his tongue against his teeth as he pulled the trigger.

“But
I’m
Flicka.” Flicka looked confused now. “Are you or are you not Man o’War?”

Manny’s face colored, and he cleared his throat. “Er, let’s go to our
table, okay?” He put his hand on the small of Flicka’s back to usher her the hell away from Sandra and gave a single nod. “It was nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy your date.”

“Thanks. Sorry.” Sandra watched him go, feeling utterly humiliated.

She looked at her watch. If Kenny was coming, he was either twenty minutes late or standing in the vestibule thinking
she
was.

The hostess tapped her as she passed. “Um, are you Sandra?”

Sandra turned to face her. “Yes.” It was the same hostess she’d told her name to twenty minutes ago.

“Yeah, some guy came by? And I told him where you were sitting? And he asked me to tell you he had an emergency and wasn’t going to be able to make it tonight after all.” She nodded and looked painfully sympathetic.

Everyone knew what that meant.

“Oh. Okay, well, thanks for the message.”

And Sandra had left, dejected. Quite apart from the whole bizarre experience with Flicka and Manny, her
real
date had come in, taken one look at her, and bolted, leaving the dim-witted hostess to break the news to her.

And that was it.

No more dating.

And no more contentions from friends that she should keep dating.

The next evening she told Tiffany, Loreen, and Abbey the story in Tiffany’s gleaming kitchen, a place that made it seem like Nothing Bad Ever Happened.

“Ew, I don’t know what’s worse.” Loreen shuddered. “The fact that this jackass ditched you or the fact that you almost went out with a pony player.”

“What the hell
is
a pony player?” Tiffany asked.

“I don’t know!” Sandra was still baffled by this apparent secret code between her nondate and
his
date. “Maybe it’s some subculture of people that everyone on earth knows about except me and you.”

“Everyone who watches
Real Sex
on HBO.” Loreen took a sip of coffee. “Honestly, I’m surprised you never had a pony player call. I had one last week.” She set the coffee mug down. “Creeped me out.”

That did it. Sandra’s curiosity was piqued. “Okay, I’m out of the loop. I’m a bad phone sex operator, and a worse date. I don’t watch HBO. What
is
it?”

“It’s a premium cable channel,” Tiffany said,
clearly
holding back a smile.

“Tiffany!”

“Okay, okay.”

Loreen said, “It’s these people who are into pony play, like to dress up as horses—you know, with bridles, martingales, saddles, even synthetic tails—and have sex like that. Like horses.”

“Oh, my God. Like those clown people?” Sandra took a steadying sip of wine. She’d seen
Real Sex
once, and the people had dressed up as clowns—something Sandra found personally terrifying—and had indiscriminate sex with each other.

It had freaked her out.

“Exactly.” Tiffany poured herself some wine. Just half a glass. She filled it the rest of the way with seltzer. That was the kind of restraint she’d always had. “I saw that one, too.”

“So this guy . . .” Sandra thought back. He’d seemed so normal. So nice. So
normal
.

You just never knew.

“Total fruitcake,” Tiffany said with a nod.

“We shouldn’t have advised you to get back on the horse so fast,” Abbey said, suppressing a smile.

“Funny,” Sandra said. “Very funny. Can we talk about something else?” She looked around. “Anyone?”

Loreen sighed. “I’ve got something to say. And if you’re faint of heart, stop me now, because it ain’t pretty.” She moved her uncertain glance from Sandra to Tiffany.

“I got you started as phone sex operators,” Sandra said, reaching for one of the Thin Mint cookies Kate had sold during the Girl Scout fund-raiser. She knew once she started she couldn’t stop, but she couldn’t stop herself from starting. After what she’d been through, she
deserved
Thin Mints. “Is it uglier than that?”

“Hey,” Tiffany said. “You saved our butts. Don’t joke about
that.
”

Sandra looked at her sister. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.”

“Oh, I say lots of nice things about you,” Tiffany said. “Just not to your face. Don’t want you to get bigheaded.”

“I’ve been on a date with a puppet,” Sandra said. “And a gay man, and a pony player. I don’t think I’m in any danger of becoming bigheaded. Oh, my God, did I tell you I ran into Louis at the grocery store?”

Loreen gasped. “Louis the Puppetmaster?”

“Exactly.” Sandra nodded. “It was terrifying. I went over to, I don’t know, apologize. Make nice. Whatever. But he was standing there with his fist balled up, like he was going to punch me. So the whole time he was telling me Arlon was
in the hospital
, he was clenching and unclenching his fist.”

“I hope you got out of there fast,” Abbey said.

“I did,” Sandra said. “But not before catching a glimpse of his fist.” She pressed her lips together and told them. “He had a face painted on it. You know, like kids do in elementary school? Where the thumb is the lower lip and you can make it talk?”