Trophy Husband (18 page)

“Do you even want a husband? Do you want to
be married in a contest?”

“No,” I croak quietly.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“No, Andy. I don’t want to be married, I
don’t want a Trophy Husband, I want someone who loves me,” I say,
then I cover my eyes with my hand so Andy won’t see that I’m
starting to cry. But he can tell anyway, by the way my shoulders
are shaking, so he pulls me against him. I bury my face in his
tee-shirt. He pets my hair.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay”

“How is this going to be okay? How am I
going to get myself out of this? What am I going to tell my
girlfriends?”

“They love you, and so do your viewers.
We’ll figure it out.”

“I am an idiot. I am a huge idiot.”

“No, but you are the most pig-headed person
I know.”

“The most!”

“The absolute and most.”

“The most pig-headed, hot-headed, stubborn
person in all of San Francisco.”

He scoffs. “In San Francisco? Try the world,
baby”

I step away and reach for a tissue. I blow
my nose. “I’ve made a big mess out of my life.”

“Why don’t you get some sleep and we’ll
figure this out on Monday, okay? Go on that date with the guy you
like and we’ll figure this out on Monday.”

I nod and walk him to the door, then give
him a hug.

On Monday I will go
Gershwin & Gershwin in my video blog:
Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off
. Yes,
that’s what I’ll do. It’ll be simple, it’ll be easy. We can now
return to our regularly scheduled programming. It’ll be a piece of
cake.

He leaves and I head to my living room,
sinking down in the couch, feeling a strange sense of peace. I’m
not the same ball of rage I’ve been. Anger doesn’t feel as good
anymore. I’ve grown weary of being angry. Tired of being mad.

I want to feel something
else. I want to
be able
to feel something else. I want to let something
else in.

Someone else.

That is, if that someone else wants to be
let in.

I reach for my phone. I’m not ready yet to
call, but I can send a text. I can manage that much. So I open a
note to Chris, and I type.

I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.

I hit send, and that small little action
feels like the start of a big step.

I spend more time than usual getting ready
for my Friday night date. And since I’ve never been one to
speed-dress, that means I take a few hours, and I enjoy every
single one of the minutes. Tonight’s date with Chris feels like a
new beginning. It feels like a real first date, but with someone
I’m already sure I like. So I shave my legs, and spread the softest
pomegranate lotion into my skin, thinking of how it would feel if
Chris’ hands were the ones on my legs. I blow out my hair,
imagining his fingers twined in my hair.

I do my make-up as I listen
to all my favorite songs, like
I’ve Got a
Crush on You
and
Fly me to the Moon
, feeling that
sweet possibility in the words. It’s as if I’m living in the
lyrics, wrapped up in the hope that they might deliver for me. I
even find myself swaying to the words as I swipe on my
blush.

I grab a skirt, a cute little bluish-green
corduroy number, pull on my fuchsia boots, then pick a
magenta-colored short sleeve sweater, near enough in color to
complement the boots, far enough away so as not to be matchy-match.
I make my way to my jewelry collection on my bureau. I choose a
black necklace with a big black plastic heart on it and a bright
pink fake gem in the middle of that. I push a trio of bracelets
onto my right wrist – light pink, aqua and light blue. I switch
from the lime-green purse to a basic black clutch, say good-bye to
my dog, and catch a cab.

When I get out of the car, I see Chris, five
feet in front of me, wearing headphones and holding an iPod. The
studio he shoots promos at is near Circa Rose, so he must have
walked here. Nerves slam into me. All that warm fuzziness of my
alone time flies away, and now I’m faced with the
does-he-or-doesn’t-he-like-me dilemma. After all, he didn’t text me
back last night. But when he sees me, he smiles and takes the
earphones out. His smile warms me.

“What are you listening to?”

“A podcast.”

“On what?”

“You’re going to laugh.”

“So make me laugh, Chris McCormick,” I say
playfully as we reach Circa Rose.

“It’s on how to build a car.”

“You’re going to build a car? Like from
scratch?”

He shrugs. “I’m thinking about it,” he says
as he opens the door for me, then pulls out a stool for me when we
reach the bar. I sit down, careful to cross my legs. My corduroy
skirt isn’t butt-cheek length, but it’s not long either. The
bartender appears. I order a grapefruit juice and vodka, Chris a
beer. An image flashes through my mind – or maybe it’s my senses –
of the taste of beer on his lips. I can sort of taste the cold
fizz, the slight chill from the drink, mixed with his breath. And I
want to taste it for real. I want to tell him the contest is off.
But how do I broach it especially when I don’t know if he feels the
same way?

He taps his iPod. “I’ve got podcasts on how
to make your own TV, how to get your computer to go faster, how to
build your own Web cam.”

There’s my entry. A joke to slide into the
serious.

I smack my forehead. “I forgot my iCam. I
forgot my computer. I’ve been video recording the dates, so the
viewers can vote.”

“Are you like the biggest dork in the world
or what? What about the cat camera I fixed for you?”

The bartender returns with our drinks. Chris
pays immediately before I have the chance to reach into my little
black bag.

“I forgot that too.”

He laughs and shakes his head, his hair
falling in his eyes as he leans closer to me. I so want to reach
out and touch his hair, but he never responded to my text last
night, so maybe this is all just business for him. I press my palms
against the bar, so I don’t start running my fingers through his
hair here and now.

“You could use your phone.”

“I could. But I don’t want to.”

“You don’t want to?”

“No,” I say, and I am nearly paralyzed by
nerves. I’m barely able to breathe any more. My chest suddenly
feels constricted, as if all my fears are gripping me.

He tilts his head to the side. “Why? Am I
out of the running? You don’t want me to get past the first
round.”

“I totally want you to get past the first
round.”

“So then?”

There’s a hopeful sound to his voice, but I
can’t quite form the words. I don’t know how to give voice to all
the feelings that are building inside me. I don’t have to though
because he inches his hand across the bar and loops his fingers
through mine. As he clasps my hand in his, sparks race through my
body, and I find myself leaning closer to him.

“I don’t want to date you for the cameras,”
I say.

“Do you want to date me not for the
cameras?” He squeezes my hand, as he holds my gaze so tight.

“Yes. I want to go out with you for
you.”

His eyes light up and his flirty, happy
smile matches mine. “I want to go out with you for you too,
McKenna.”

That’s all it takes for that crazy torquing
feeling to fade away, and for me to move in closer and trace his
top lip with my index finger. “You have really pretty lips,” I
say.

He laughs. “Cute blushing. Pretty lips. Are
these compliments?”

“It’s me. I’m a dork. I don’t know what to
say to someone I really like.”

“So you really like me?”

“I sent you that text last night, didn’t
I?”

“Well, I didn’t know if it was a business
text, like you couldn’t wait to see me for the contest, or if it
was more.”

“That’s why you never responded?”

He nods. “Yeah, that’s why I never
responded. But I couldn’t wait to see you too. You could throw the
contest out the window right now and I would still want to date
you. I would still want to play video games with you and fix your
camera and have dinner with you. And I would still want to take you
back to my house. And I would still want to take you out again the
next day.”

“You would?”

“Yes. I told you I thought you were hot the
very first time I met you, and then we talked and you were so much
more.”

“I am?” My heart is ping ponging with
happiness inside me.

“Yeah, you are. You’re tough, and you’re
smart, and you’re intensely independent, and you like music, and
you’re just this totally cool chick.”

“So, speaking of music, you got any music on
that bad boy or are you just geeking out with your DIY
podcasts?”

“I have many songs. Would you like to
see?”

“Yes.”

“I have a whole playlist of
cover songs,” Chris continues. He touches the menu button and
scrolls through to his playlists, tapping on the one for covers. I
lean in close to read the names, and he wraps his arm around my
waist. It’s such a
date
gesture and such an unfamiliar one to me, but as
his fingertips press against my hip bone, I know I could get used
to this with him. I could so get used to the feel of his hands on
me, from how he touched my face when we kissed by the car last
weekend, to how he played my fingers in the electronics store, and
to the way he’s holding me now. It borders on a possessive gesture,
as if he’s saying that I’m with him.

And that is what he’s saying. Because right
here, right now, I am with him. I shift closer, and he holds me
tighter, and it’s getting increasingly harder to concentrate on
anything but his touch.

I try though, tapping the
playlist. “
Killing Me Softly
by the Fugees. I love that. I am telling you, that
is how that song was meant to be sung.”

“Couldn’t agree more. Same
goes for
Physical
by Jane Black. So much better than Olivia Newton-John’s
version, don’t you think?”

“Hell yeah.”

“She did to that song what
Aretha did to Otis Redding with
Respect
. ‘That girl done stole my
song,’ is what he said.”

I laugh, then look at his
playlist again. “
Hallelujah
by Jeff Buckley. Love that version.”

“It’s so haunting, don’t you think?” I look
at him, seeing something, a passion, a spark, in those amazing
green eyes of his. “I don’t think there is a more beautiful song. I
love it every time I hear it.”

I enjoy hearing him talk
about music, open up a bit about what moves him. I love that he
thinks
Hallelujah
is a beautiful song, and not just because I happen to agree. I
love that he loves it because that shows he has passion, he has
feeling, he can be moved by a song. I love his clothes, and I love
his hair, and I love his beautiful face, and his strong hands, and
the way he touches, and if this keeps up there won’t be enough room
inside me for all of the feelings that I can barely contain. It’s
like a waterfall, how suddenly this rush has come over me, and I
want to be close to him.

But I am so scared, and I am so good at
finding ways to bat those feeling aside.

“You know what I would name my band if I
were in a band? Cult of the Neon Santas. So that’s what I named my
wireless network.”

“Bet that gets all your rock star desires
out of your system. Mine would be Pizza for Breakfast.”

“I love that name and having that on the
menu,” I say, then take a drink of my grapefruit and vodka. “You
want to know why I’m not a rock star, Chris?”

“Why are you not a rock star, McKenna?”

“It’s not because I can’t
sing. It’s not because I can’t hit a note if my life depended on
it. And it’s not because I can’t play a guitar,” I say, layering in
a pause for effect. “It’s because I can’t stand being in a car for
more than one hour. It would make me
crazy
having to drive all over this
country from gig to shining gig.”

Chris laughs, then tucks a strand of my hair
back behind my ear. “You’re funny, McKenna.”

I’m funny. He says I’m funny. I feel like
Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer when Clarice tells him he’s cute.
Rudolph scampers off, joyous and happy, shouting, “She thinks I’m
cute! She thinks I’m cute!”

I could so fall in love with him. I could
fall in love with him in a heartbeat. He brings his other hand to
my waist, and pulls me in close. He’s seated on the bar stool, and
I’m standing as I slide into the V between his legs, his firm
thighs now on either side of me. The distance between us narrows,
and the temperature rises. Like this, with him so close, I can tell
how much he wants me. As much as I want him. I am turned on beyond
belief, my skin is so hot, and my body is aching all over with the
need to be touched, and he knows it. And just like that, the mood
between us here at Circa Rose shifts. It’s no longer flirty, or
chatty, or get to know you. We’re no longer a guy and girl
confessing to crushes and likes. As he plays with the waistband of
my skirt, his hand dipping inside, stroking the bare skin of my
hips just above my panties, we are a man and a woman who want to
get the hell out of here. The air between us is electric, like the
moments before a summer storm.

“We don’t need to shoot that promo anymore,
do we?” he asks, and his voice is different now too. It’s smoky and
low, and as he brings me in closer, I can tell he’s gone to the
same place I’ve gone to. Desire. And then the hope that we can take
this contact to another level.

“I was really hoping to see your fancy
studio though,” I tease.