Chapter Seventeen
The afterglow lasts through Sunday as I spend the afternoon strolling through my favorite boutiques in Noe Valley with Hayden and Erin.
Erin prowls through a rack, then shows me an adorable cream sweater with little pearl buttons and tiny baby blue embroidered birds. “It’s so kitschy cute I almost can’t stand it,” she says as she holds it against my chest. She looks at Hayden. “She should wear this on her next date, don’t you think?”
“Definitely.” Hayden nods her approval. Then taps her lips with her index finger, and furrows her brow. “But for what guy?”
“JP?” Erin asks, then shakes her head. “Nope. Chris. Wear this on your next date with Chris.”
Erin thrusts the sweater into my hands, and I know this is the moment. This is when I should tell them. I should let them know that the dates with Chris are real and that the sweater could truly be for me to wear with him. That the contest is over and I have a boyfriend rather than a husband. And I like it that way. No, I love it that way.
“So, um,” I start to say, then my voice becomes vapor.
And it hits me why. It’s not that I’m afraid of disappointing them. They care about me more than a contest. They’ll forgive me for lying about his age. They’ll probably even laugh about it, and about my worries over breaking an oath that was all fun and games. What they’ve truly wanted for me all along is to heal from heartbreak. That’s precisely what makes me clam up. Fear of heartbreak. Of getting hurt. Of being broken. Because there’s a part of me that knows as soon as I give voice to what’s happening with Chris, then I may very well have to tell them someday about it ending. It’s as if I am trying to hold it in my hands, like a fragile glass globe and keep it safe until it’s immune from heartache, until it’s safe from the breaking.
So for now I stay quiet, keeping the bloom of falling for Chris to myself through the evening, as I walk my dog, and read a text from my boyfriend telling me that Qbert misses me, and it’s almost enough for me to drop everything and invite him over. But the next time I see him I know I’ll want him in every way, and I won’t let myself go there until I’ve come clean. So I resist, telling him instead that I’ve never enjoyed a game of Qbert more.
Then I reach for my laptop, write out a script for tomorrow’s show, going with the simplest admission of all. “Thanks for your support. I’m pleased to let you know that I found someone who makes me ridiculously happy, and because of that the contest is over. It wouldn’t be fair to him, you, me or anyone else to keep going because this guy has already won. He’s won my heart.”
I exhale.
I’ve written it down. I’ve given voice to my feelings. I’ll be putting it out there. I can do this. I can step forward into the great unknown of a new love. Tomorrow, I’ll call Hayden, Erin and Julia right after my shoot and before the video goes live.
I close the computer, slide under the covers, and scratch Ms. Pac-Man’s ears just the way she likes.
“You’re a good girl.”
* * *
The next morning as I finish my makeup, Todd’s name flashes across my phone. My stomach tightens, but I answer it anyway. He’s holding something over me, and I need to know what it is.
“So about the sale of your blog to Fashion Nation,” he begins, picking up our truncated call where we left off. “I hate to do this, McKenna. I really hate to do this. But I feel a little bit, what’s the word? Shafted. A little bit shafted. Left out with the sale.”
I must get my hearing checked. I’m sure he didn’t just say that. “You feel shafted? Well, isn’t that just the pot calling the kettle black.”
He ignores me. “I’m only talking about what’s fair. You made a pretty penny on that sale, and you surely deserve most of it.” I grit my teeth as he repeats the words, “Most of it.”
“I deserve all of it.”
“Well, I’m not so sure about that. And I’ve been talking to some folks who think it’s a little unfair that I didn’t receive any of the buyout money. After all, I did play an instrumental role in the intellectual property of The Fashion Hound. If not for me, you would probably never even have a blog.”
He is gasoline and I am a flame. “Let me guess. You’re not making as much money as your new wife wants to support your family. So you’re looking to dip your fingers in my bank account?”
He scoffs. “No. No. No. I want what’s fair. This isn’t about money. This is about equality. That’s something that matters a lot to you, isn’t it? You’re all about equality. You’re going after equal treatment in your show with your little project. I want equal treatment in the sale.”
I am fuming, twin streams of red fury pour out of my ears, as I slam my mascara tube on the sink, only one eye done. I am a teapot about to boil over, a geyser about to blow. “I would rather wear baggy jeans and shapeless shirts for the rest of my life than ever give you a cent of what you don’t deserve.”
I stab my manicured nail on the end button and drop my phone on the chair. Then I race downstairs, and bang on Hayden’s door, hoping to hell she hasn’t left yet for work.
She answers, dressed sharply in her lawyer suit, a cup of coffee in one hand.
“Greg,” I say, through clenched teeth. “I need to talk to Greg.”
“He’s leaving for work in a few, but come in.”
I walk inside, not caring that mascara has made it onto only one set of eyelashes, and that my face must look oddly asymmetrical as I collapse at the kitchen table and lay out my newest dilemma for Hayden’s business attorney husband. He nods thoughtfully, listening carefully as I recount every detail of Todd’s request.
“Please tell me he doesn’t have a leg to stand on,” I say, and I’m not just begging, I’m pleading.
Greg sighs. “I’ll help you through this. You know I will. But he has a case.”
“It never ends with him.”
Hayden sighs, as she puts a hand on my shoulder. She says nothing. There is nothing to say. Because Todd will stop at nothing to find new ways to rip me.
I return to my house and punch the Xbox on-button. I fire up Guitar Hero this time and plow through a few songs on medium, releasing my fury on the guitar and then taking down Slash in three tries in an epic guitar battle on the medium level.
But I still want to kick the screen, or the console, or a brick wall, so when my phone rings again, I answer it angrily before I even see who’s calling.
“What. Is. It. Now?”
“Hi, I’m looking for McKenna Bell,” the man’s voice says, unperturbed. He’s not Todd, so I dial down my anger.
“This is McKenna.”
“Hello! This is Tristan Quinn. I’m a producer with Helen in the city and I wanted to see if you are available to come on the show today.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. The Fashion Hound,” he coos, saying my name with a faux-sinister accent, like I’m a campy sixties superhero.
“For what?”
Helen is a national daytime talk show that’s been on the air for several years. Helen is Helen Weathers, a former actress and comedian. Her show is topical, she interviews celebrities and politicians, brings popular musicians on stage to perform, and banters with the audience and guests.
“Well,” Tristan purrs into the phone, “Helen just adores your video blog and wants to talk to you about what makes a good Trophy Husband.”
“Oh, that’s very sweet. But I’m no longer in the market for a –”
“–Helen has been a fan of your blog for some time now,” Tristan gushes. He lowers his voice. “You know, she’s an alpha female too.”
I laugh. “I know, but–”
“And she just LOVES the idea of a Trophy Husband so she wants you on the show to talk about traits and qualities that make for a good Trophy Husband. You’re the leading expert on them, she says.”
“I’m the leading expert on Trophy Husbands? Wow, I didn’t know the world needed one.”
“Oh, I just have to tell you, I think this idea is so fabulous. I mean, men have been doing this for years. Why not women?”
“That was my thought initially, but I’ve sort of had a change of–”
“– So, how about today? We’re over in the Dogpatch, and you’re local, so maybe you can just motor on over and chat with Helen. We tape at eleven and the segment will run this afternoon. And you can talk about how to evaluate a Trophy Husband. How to assess a Trophy Husband. Like he’s a bottle of wine, a new car, a mink coat, not that I’d ever wear fur, obviously.”
“Uh…”
You see, I want to tell him, I’m retiring from Trophy Husband hunting. I’m hanging up my hat. I don’t want a trophy, I don’t want a boy toy, thank you very much. I have a boyfriend, a delicious boyfriend, who went down on me on his Qbert machine, who wrapped his arms around me and practically sang my favorite song to me, who told me he wanted to go out with me from the first day he met me. A boyfriend who doesn’t want anyone else to have me.
But Tristan’s merely asking me on the show as an expert, right? He’s not asking me to talk about my quest. He wants to know how to appraise boy toys. I can do that. I can help other women who’ll come after me. I’ll just postpone today’s blog til the afternoon, and I’ll go get ready for Helen’s show now.
Besides, I still have fight in me. I haven’t gone soft. I won’t let a little peaceful easy feeling with Chris make me forget there’s still a battle with my ex, and I’m not through getting even.
“I’d love to be on the show.”