Trophy Husband (9 page)

And there I go, in my imagination. Time
slows, and the bar disappears, and it’s just Chris and me. He’s
taken me out for coffee, or dinner, or a movie. Or better yet – a
round of Candyland at the kitchen table. We could even invent our
own rules that involve kissing every time you have to go back a few
spaces.

Or more.

Kissing that leads to so
much more. I close my eyes, and picture a kiss that starts sweet
and soft and slow. Then, his hands cup my face as if he’s claiming
me, saying
you’re mine
with his lips and his hands and the way he draws me in close,
his thumb tracing a line along my jaw. It’s such a small gesture,
but such a poetically possessive one and I arch my back, inviting
more. In one swift move, he pulls my chair to him, sliding me
between the V of his legs. His fingers thread their way into my
hair, and I lean into his hands, reveling in the way they feel
against the back of my head, as if he’s holding me in the exact way
he wants me, in the exact way I want to be held. My breaths grow
louder as he kisses me hard, craving the taste of my lips crushed
against his. A groan escapes him, telling me he doesn’t want to
stop; he only wants more of me.

He breaks the kiss, stands, and reaches for
my hips, quickly pulling me up. I sway, still lightheaded and
probably will be days. But he steadies me with one hand on my
waist, and he looks at me with such dark desire in his eyes, with a
fierce kind of hunger as if he has to have me, touch me, be with
me.

One look like that and I am his for the
asking. For the taking. My heart pounds harder and my pulse
speeds.

It’s clear we’re not playing Candyland
anymore. We’re going off the board, he’s shoving the game and all
the pieces to the floor in one strong sweep of his arm. The cards
and the markers scatter, clinking on my floor, and I don’t care
about anything else except the the way he lifts me up on the table,
and moves his hand from my throat to my chest to my waist, as if he
knows instinctually how much I love having my hips touched, like he
knows all the spots on my body that can drive me wild without me
even having to tell him. He can find them in the dark, without a
map. He needs no direction. The playbook to my body is in him, his
head, his heart, his hands. He knows what I want. He knows how I
like it. He wants to give it to me. Soon, I’m breathless, and we’re
chest to chest, hips to hips, and I’m grasping at him, my hands
sliding around to his perfect ass, so round and firm, and I grab
hold of him, desperately needing the friction of his body against
mine, even though we’re fully clothed. His hands explore me,
feathering against the exposed skin of my thighs, then sliding
inside the hem of my skirt. Teasing, tempting, inching higher, and
if he keeps going like this I am going to lean my head back and
gasp in pleasure. Something I’m dangerously near to doing as his
fingers reach the deliciously agonizing point where I want him
most. Discovering how ready I am for him. Wickedly delighting in
knowing I am full of a crazy kind of longing for him, that my body
calls out for his. Oh, I could so cry out his name right now, let
him have me, take me, taste me. Let the world know he drives me
wild.

Then I stop the fantasy from going any
further. A guy like that – funny, charming, into video games –
would never be into a gal like me.

Besides, there is no moonlight.

I stare at my computer screen, as if the
solution to finding a guy who’ll fill my heart with gladness and
take away all my sadness lies somewhere in the machine. Because
Meter Boy was a bust, and Craigslist is not my cup of tea, and I
don’t know where to go next. It’s not as if I’m terribly good at
the bar pick-up scene. Does that even work anymore? I haven’t a
clue about how to date, let alone how to run a dating contest. Why
did I ever think I could pull this off? I’m a fashion blogger. I
know which shirts go with skirts, and where to find the screaming
deals. I don’t know about men anymore.

The doorbell rings. I straighten up and head
over to the front door, quickly checking my reflection in the
nearby mirror. All clear. I peer through the peephole.

The Fedex Guy is back.

He really is cute. He has blond hair and
brown eyes, a combo I love. I’m reminded of Lena’s suggestion that
I consider him as a candidate. Maybe the eight-year-old was
right.

“Hold on, I’ll be right there,” I shout,
then I peek at the mirror, fluff my hair, bite my lips for color,
and smooth my tee-shirt, a pale yellow number that I picked up at a
little shop in Petaluma that’s my best source for quirky cool
tee-shirts. This shirt has an illustration of a mechanical horse
and the words “Saddle Up and Ride” on the front. I’ve worn it a few
times on my show, and viewers love it, and so does the store that
sells it since I’ve sent a ton of business its way. I also worn it
once when I picked up Hayden’s daughter from school to help her
out. I got a few cold looks from the other moms that day. Whatever.
It’s not like it says “Saddle up and Ride Me.”

I open the door and do my
best to assume a sexy smile, but not quite a come-hither one. It’s
a delicate balancing act. And I am so out of practice at the art of
seduction, I’m beyond out of practice. But I give it my best
shot.
Be sexy, be bold.

“Hello,” I say slowly, drawing out each
syllable.

“Hi there. Got a package for you. Want to
sign?”

“I would love to sign your package,” I purr
back.

He raises an eyebrow, and all my
self-confidence depletes to zero. A withered balloon.

“Just tell me where.” I return to my
professional voice. No wonder I haven’t landed a date. I’m
abysmal.

He points to the clipboard he’s holding,
tapping his pen against the spot where he wants my name in ink. I
sign as directed, then look straight at him, not up or down, so he
must be right about 5’10” too. I try again, going for simple and
direct this time. “McKenna Bell, there you go. And what’s your
name?”

He hands me the envelope and smiles back.
“Steely Dan Duran.”

I crack up right there on my doorstep.
“What’s your name for real?”

“It really is Steely Dan Duran. My mom was a
huge Duran Duran fan.”

“Evidently.”

“And my dad liked Steely Dan. So they
compromised.”

“That is the very definition of
compromise.”

He nods and gives me another smile, and
that’s exactly why I like it when he brings me packages. That sexy
sweet grin is precisely why he’s the type of deliveryman a girl can
fantasize over. So I lay the envelope on the table by the door and
decide to see if he qualifies. Because maybe this is my parking
karma at play – Triple D might not have worked out, but perhaps the
universe is delivering the best man to my porch in the form of
Steely Dan Duran.

“So is your mom like a child of the eighties
or something?”

“Apparently. I think they were listening to
Duran Duran and Steely Dan when I was born.”

Oh, he practically walked right into
that.

“And that would be in 1982?” I ask with a
wink.

He laughs. “Ha. ’90.”

Twenty-three.
Perfecto.
“So Steely Dan Duran. Would you
like to go out some time?”

He takes a step back, as if I’ve just asked
him to drink hemlock.

“Scratch that,” I quickly add, crimson
racing to my cheeks. Why did I ever think I could pull this off?
“I’ll just take that back.”

But Steely Dan Duran will have none of it.
He steps towards me and places a hand on my arm. “I would love to
take you out to dinner.”

“You would?”

He nods vigorously. “I was just surprised
that’s all. But please don’t take it back because I would love to
go out. And I would love to be the one to do the asking. Would you
like to go out with me?”

“Yes.”

I’m ready to dance a little
jig, kick my heels up in the air a la Gene Kelly. Maybe it’s
not
that hard to find a
Trophy Husband after all. I make plans with Steely Dan Duran for
next weekend and head back inside. I reach for the envelope he
dropped off and rip it open.

And there goes my happy mood.

My jaw drops as I read a letter from Todd’s
attorney, requesting joint custody of the dog. Now that he has a
house in Marin, and a baby, and a yard, he’s claiming the dog is
better suited with him. I can’t believe he has the audacity to ask
for this, but then he’s the same person who didn’t leave my
favorite restaurant when he ran into me even though that would have
been the courteous thing to do.

I read more, pushing my hands through my
hair, hard against my scalp. My brain is about to officially pop
when the papers request three canine sleepovers each week, and then
I nearly gag when I see Amber’s name as well on the claim – Todd
and Amber Frank.

I pick up my phone and call him at work. He
answers immediately and I don’t bother with niceties. I launch
right into it. “You have got to be kidding me. The dog is mine, and
you haven’t so much as taken her for a walk in the last year, let
alone a sleepover.”

“And that needs to change,” he says.

My mother lioness instincts kick in. I’m the
one who trained the dog, walked the dog, fed the dog, took her to
every vet appointment, threw tennis balls to her in the water. He
didn’t want the dog when he left me for Amber. He doesn’t get the
dog now. “The dog stays with me.”

“I figured you would feel that way, and
that’s why I hired the best attorney, so perhaps you should take it
up with him. I believe you have his number on the legal
papers.”

Then he hangs up on me.

I slam the papers down on the credenza and
huff back into the kitchen, practically ripping the fridge door
open. I need a Diet Coke and I need one now. I grab one from the
lower drawer and angrily pop it open, taking a thirsty first
gulp.

I savor it because I find few things in life
as singularly satisfying as the sound and feel of a can opening.
The Diet Coke trickery should have been my tip-off that things with
Todd wouldn’t work out. I’d be working or paying bills at the
kitchen table and ask him to please bring me a Diet Coke. He knew
about my first sip fixation, he knew I derived uncommon pleasure
from the very first bubbly sensation, from the taste of the virgin
cold metal on my lips. Yet, he would always ruin it for me by
opening the drink himself and taking a sip while he mosey-ed on
over to the table to deposit the can in front of me with a devilish
little smirk. He’d give me this look, this “Aren’t I cute for
taking the first sip when I know you love it” look. And he’d think
it was endearing. I tried to explain every time that I was serious
about this. I really wanted my own first taste.

I know it’s not a big deal. I know that
disagreeing about the first sip of a soda isn’t the reason he
left.

I can enjoy every single ounce of this soda
all by myself right now. I can enjoy the money from the sale of The
Fashion Hound. I can enjoy the silence in this house.

But I can’t always. Because tears now roll
down my face as I look at this legal letter, this cold,
business-like language that we have been reduced to. We used to
spend nights tangled up in sheets, and lazy afternoons only with
each other. We used to be each other’s rocks and each other’s
lovers, a potent combination of reliance and passion that would see
us through all our days.

Then there was one night in Vegas, and
everything shattered. Right down to the dog. We adopted Ms. Pac-Man
three years ago from the San Francisco Humane Society, picking her
out at that same jinx-you-owe-me-a-coke moment when she tilted her
blond head to the side and won us over with those big brown canine
eyes. We were a threesome, a little family unit.

Now, she’s some pawn to him.

My chest heaves, and I bring my hand to my
mouth, shaking with sadness. Embarrassed that this is who I am
now.

Alone with a soda and a letter from a
lawyer.

I try so hard to be tough, to be impervious
to the whole fucking world.

But moments like this?

I miss, and I miss, and I miss.

I miss being cared for. I miss being loved.
I miss being considered. I wipe a hand across my cheek, my mascara
streaking. I used to love him so goddamn much. I didn’t stop loving
him the second he took up with Amber. And now he’s with her, really
with her, and I’m here in my kitchen, with only the first sip for
comfort as he tries to take my dog from me.

As if she’s some sort of toy for his new
wife, his new kid, his new life without me. Ms. Pac-Man hears me
and ambles on over to sit at my feet, looking at me as if to ask if
everything’s okay. I tell her yes, even though it’s not true.

I sniffle, reach for my
iPod, and pick
Sailboat in the
Moonlight
by Billie Holiday. I might as
well just stick my finger in a flame, but I can’t resist the way
she sings about tender lips, about dreams coming true, about all
the things I ever wanted.

I may be hunting for a boy toy, but
somewhere inside of me I am still longing for someone to sail away
in the moonlight with.

Only, I no longer have that luxury. I can no
longer ask for or expect those things. So I take a breath, I dry my
tears, and I crush the empty can of soda in my hand.

Crushing my dreams of a love I can’t dare to
hope for.

* * *

Steely Dan Duran isn’t much better. For
starters, we’re dining at Baby Doe’s all the way in Marin County on
the other side of the bridge. I don’t go to Marin often. There’s
not much need because the city has everything I want. But let me
tell you all you need to know about Baby Doe’s.