Chapter Eight
Hayden adjusts her glasses, a sign she’s about to go into lawyer mode. “Now, bear in mind that my area of specialty is in patent law, not pet custody.”
“First the disclaimer,” I say. I’m hanging out at her house that night, stretched out on her couch with my laptop, her doing the same. Greg’s at a business dinner, and Lena just went to bed.
“But I looked into Todd’s claim, and even though it’s ridiculous you can’t just ignore it. If you do, that’s when problems start to occur.”
“Are you saying he can just come and take the dog?”
“No. I’m not saying that. And to be honest, possession is nine-tenths of the law, so you have that in your favor. But what you need to remember is San Francisco is a city that enacted an ordinance elevating pets above property in family law matters. Pet owners are now legally considered guardians rather than pet owners, so you have to take this seriously.”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously?”
“It is a left-wing paradise, isn’t it? So you need to start rounding up documents. To show you take care of the dog. Vet bills, Vet records.”
“What about her health insurance? I pay for that too.”
“I still can’t believe you have pet insurance. But yes, gather all those documents. Along with pet food receipts, receipts for toys you bought for her.”
Something about her list energizes me. It’s fuel for my never-let-Todd-win mission. “I brush her teeth every day. I buy the dog toothpaste online, so I have all the records of the times I buy her toothpaste.”
Hayden snaps her fingers and points at me. “I like. Yes. That. Do that. Anything. Amass it all. Because if it gets to a court, or a judge, or even a pet mediator, you want to show that you are this dog’s sole owner.”
I tilt my head and give her a chiding look. “Hayden. You mean guardian, don’t you?”
She smiles. “Yes, counselor. I mean guardian.”
“They really have pet mediators?”
“This is San Francisco. How many domestic partnerships and common law marriages do you think involve pets?”
“A lot.”
“And this reminds me. When you do snag yourself that Trophy Husband, let’s make sure the dog’s guardianship is established from the get-go.”
“Speaking of, I need to do some whittling.”
“Want me to help you?”
“You would?”
“I told you I’m here for you. So if you’re doing this, you better make room for me,” she says, and scoots closer to check out the pictures together as I return to my inbox, which is bursting with more than five hundred potentials thanks to the power of Chris’ show.
“How about this guy?”
“Ooh, I like that one,” Hayden says, pointing to a dark-haired hottie with a seductive smile.
“Let’s move him to the potential keeper folder,” I say and slide his email over with a flourish. I wonder briefly if I should tell her about my kinda-sorta-maybe date with Chris tomorrow. I don’t even know if he’s twenty-three, though I doubt it. But as Hayden’s eyes widen and she points merrily to a cute blonde guy, then vehemently nixes a so-so redhead, I decide I’m better off keeping Chris to myself for now. If my one reluctant friend is now fully backing the quest, I need to stick with the plan and adhere to the oath I took at her house a few weeks ago.
Besides, it’s just lunch.
Lena pads down the hall, wearing her black and orange San Francisco Giants pajamas, and holding Green Eggs and Ham, still her favorite book. “Mom, I can’t fall asleep. Can you read one more book to me?”
“I’ll read to you,” I offer. “These emails are making my eyes glaze over.”
“Can I see?” Lena leans over the couch to see the pile of emails stacked up, virtually, in my inbox. “What are all those emails, McKenna?”
“She’s just trying to sort through some boys for potential dates,” her mom says, since Hayden tends to be pretty open with her kid. Ergo, so am I with Lena.
“Yeah, cause the Fedex guy was a dud,” Lena says, repeating back what I told her a week ago when she asked.
“Total dud.”
“So do you like any of these boys?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll find a nice boy. I want you to be happy. My mom wants you to be happy. We both want you to find your sailboat in the moonlight.”
I tear up again. My friend and her kid know my favorite songs. They know what my heart wants, even though my brain rarely listens to my heart.
* * *
“You can never go wrong with fries.”
“Or with forty-seven varieties of dipping sauces for fries,” I add as I survey the list of ketchup substitutes that Fritz’s offers. Fritz Gourmet Fries is on one of my favorite streets in the city. Union Street happens to boast some of the best shopping in the city, with arty boutiques and funky little shops where I often find purchases to show my viewers. But honestly, the only reason I am thinking of my second favorite pasttime – shopping – is that if I don’t I might be eaten alive by the butterflies in my belly.
Chris is so cute. So handsome. So delectable. And I am sure I am going to do something to mess up this sorta date because I haven’t a clue how to date. I’ve been with one guy since I was twenty-one, and I don’t even know if this is a date with Chris, but I want it to be one. Because he thinks I’m a hot chick, and I think he’s a total babe, and I’ve already imagined the passion with which he kisses and the sparks his fingers send through me…
I focus on the menu because if I don’t I will surely do something incredibly inept.
I scan the list of forty-seven dipping sauces – pesto mayo, spicy yogurt peanut, creamy wasabi tapenade, spicy lime, roasted red pepper. They all sound delicious.
“If I told you my favorite French fry dip was ketchup would you think less of me?” Chris leans in as he asks the question, the menu spread out in front of him on the table, his light brown hair falling across his forehead. He’s wearing jeans and a green tee-shirt with a picture of a cartoon squid on it. The squid’s cool, but I mostly like the shirt because it shows off his arms, toned and strong. I’m wearing a flouncy skirt, a purple scoop neck top, a matching necklace with small purple plastic squares strung together, and my Mary Janes.
“Dude, you drove my views up by fifty-five percent in one day,” I say, referring to the viewership stats from yesterday when he first mentioned me, because if I say what I want to say – How could I think less of you, you beautiful man – he’d run. “So as for how you like your French fries, well I say you could eat them in a boat, you could eat them in a box, you could eat them with a fox –” I cover my face with my hands. “I can’t believe what I just said.”
Chris laughs. “You’re reciting Green Eggs and Ham!”
“I know.” I look up, a little embarrassed. “Well, Chris. The cat’s out of the bag. I’m kind of a dork.”
“Nah, that’s just a good book.”
I shake my head. “I can’t believe I said that, like it was a punchline or something. I think it was because I was reading it to my friend’s kid last night. She’s eight and she still loves it.” Chris looks at me, listening, but I feel kind of silly again. Why does he bring out the awkward in me? Oh right. Because I want to run my hands through his hair, and I want to find a million reasons to touch him, his hands, his arm, his legs. Because, yeah, that’s awkward.
Chris’ green eyes sparkle. “But would you eat them in a house? Would you eat them with a mouse?”
“Not in a box, not with a fox, not in a house, not with a mouse,” I fire back, and I could kiss him for the way he now makes me feel un-awkward.
“I would not eat them here or there. I would not eat them anywhere.”
“Okay, Mr. McCormick. Pretty damn impressive.”
A waiter pops by our table, fresh-faced and smiling, with a face so smooth he looks he hasn’t even started shaving yet. “And what can I get you fine folks today?” he asks, rather jollily.
“I’m gonna go a little wild and order some French fries,” I begin.
“Yeah, go nuts!” the waiter replies cheerily. “What kind of sauce would you like with that?”
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you surprise me? Just pick your three best, any three, and bring them back to me.”
The waiter’s eyes light up. He’s thrilled to have been entrusted with such an important task. “It will be my pleasure.”
“And I’ll have the Mediterranean salad with that,” I add.
“And for you?” The chipper boy asks my lunch companion. Chris orders a chicken sandwich, French fries, and extra ketchup. The waiter returns to the kitchen. I launch right back into conversation.
“So now I feel I must regain some street cred in your eyes, so I’ll tell you that the last time I watched her kid, I read her the lyrics to one of my favorite songs to teach her new words.”
“And what would those be?”
“Well, now she knows all about an airline ticket to romantic places and a tinkling piano in the next apartment since I read the lyrics to These Foolish Things to her,” I say, then I want to clamp my hand on my mouth. Why don’t I just tell him to whisk me away and bury me in kisses that make me forget where am I as the world disappears and time slows to one delicious moment with him? Because I don’t think I gained any points by serving up that romantic mushfest to him.
“You should know that, one, you didn’t lost any street cred by reciting Green Eggs and Ham, two, you definitely gained even more coolness for sharing one of my top five favorite songs of all time, a song I would only ever admit I liked to a girl,” he says, and I hide a grin because I didn’t just mess up. “And three, I know the words to Green Eggs and Ham because it was my little sister Jill’s favorite book, and I taught her to read way back when.”
“What a good older brother.”
“Thank you. I’m one of two brothers. Youngest boy, and Jill’s the only girl.”
“And is Jill out here in the Bay Area?”
He smiles and shakes his head. “Nope. She’s in New York. Actress. She landed a part in this new Broadway musical called Crash the Moon. It opens soon and I’m going to go see her. I’m really proud of her.”
“I’ve heard about that musical. It sounds amazing.”
“Yeah, she’s pretty stoked about it. We text and email a lot, and she’s been telling me about it. But I think the director is also making her kind of crazy.”
“I have to imagine directors of musicals probably have a way of doing that.”
He smiles back and this time I notice his teeth. They are nice, straight and white.
“So I wanted to thank you again for mentioning my show on your show. That’s what this crazy video world is built on, right? Cross promotion.”
“Speaking of, that’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Chris says.
My heart sinks. I had thought this was a date. But it turns out he may have a business agenda. Then I tell myself it’s better this way. I wouldn’t know how to date someone like him for real.
The waiter appears with our salads, sandwiches, fries and sauces. He deposits the plates on the table, hurries off, then returns with water. He clasps his hands together, almost like he’s praying. “Now, can I get you anything else? Anything else at all?”
I shake my head and Chris says no. The waiter leaves.
“Is he like the happiest person you have ever met?” Chris asks.
“Yeah, I’ll have what he’s having.”
“So, I have to tell you. I looked you up after I gave you back your camera,” Chris says, and I find myself hopeful again because he looked me up. He dips a French fry into the ketchup. “When you finally gave me your last name and well –” He stops himself, shifts gears a bit, then resumes. “And then when I did and saw you were this big Web personality...”
I laugh once. “Hardly.”
“Anyway, I added you to my RSS feed and started watching your show every day, even though, I have to say, I’m not into fashion. But I watched it because…” his voice trails off again, and I want to fill in the gaps. I want to script what’s unsaid. Because you thought I was cute too? But I can’t let myself hope. Hope leads to disappointment. “And then when you talked about the dates you went on and how they flopped, that’s when it hit me. I could send you some of my viewers. Because they’re young and hopefully somewhat cool.”
“And I’ve gotten pictures from about five hundred of them!”
“And I’m sure some of them are dorks like most guys are, but you never know, right?”
“There were some good ones in the crop it seemed.”
He pretends to blow on his fingernails, the sign for being too hot to handle. “Damn, maybe I am good at this matchmaking thing.” Then he becomes serious and asks, “So I have to ask, is this for real?”
“For real?”
“Yeah, for real. I mean, it’s funny. Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s a hilarious storyline. But it’s a storyline, right? It’s a game and all, but are you actually going to go through with this?”
“What do you mean, go through with it?” I ask, dodging the very thorny question of will I say “I do.” Because for me, frankly, this isn’t about the “I do” portion. It’s about the trophy aspect. It’s about the catch. And, I suppose, what landing such a prize might say about me. That I can move on. That I am over Todd. That he’s not the only one who wins.
Chris takes a bite of his chicken sandwich, chews, then says again, “Yeah. Are you really looking for a Trophy Husband?”
I furrow my brow and pretend to be all thoughtful. “Hmmm…I’ve always thought a pool boy would be nice. Even a cabana boy.”
He laughs. “So it’s kind of a joke.”
“No. My ex-fiancé left me at the altar last year for a college student he met and married in Vegas the night before our wedding. He’s thirty-four and she’s twenty-one now, and I think it’s royally unfair that men can do that and women can’t.”
He puts the sandwich down and looks at me intensely. Seriously. “Your ex-fiancé is a complete a*shole for a million reasons, but most of all because he’d have to be crazy to leave you.”
“Thank you. Thank you for saying that.”
“It’s his loss, McKenna,” Chris says in this kind of fierce tone that makes my stomach execute a few loop-de-loops. Is he flirting with me? How do I even flirt back?
I do what I do best and turn the questions back on him. “What about you? Maybe you should be a Trophy Husband.”
He laughs.
I look at him pointedly, my eyes open wide. “Well, why not?”
“Well, um…” he stammers. He seems slightly uncomfortable. My cue to keep going.
I egg him on. “After all, you encouraged your viewers to throw their names in the hat. Maybe you should too. Maybe you could be a Trophy Husband, Chris.”
He starts blushing, his cheeks turning a faint shade of red.
“You’re blushing!”
“Yeah, well…”
“It’s kind of cute actually.”
“Thanks, that’s what I was hoping for. Cute blushing.”
“You don’t like the sound of cute blushing?”
“It’s not very manly, now is it?”
I soften a bit. “Why are you blushing?”
“I just don’t think I’m Trophy Husband material,” he says, kind of sweetly, a little innocently.
“Well, why not? Are you already a husband?”
“No, that’s not it.”
“So what then? You could be a prize catch, Chris,” I say, and he smiles.
Actually, it’s more like a grin.
“I appreciate that. I really do.”
“Well?”
He sighs, then puts his hands on the table. “I don’t think I meet the other qualifications.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t ever say my age on my show, but I’m twenty-nine,” he whispers.
“Holy f*ck! You’re practically middle-aged.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I’m an old man, McKenna. But keep that between us. I want the kids to think I’m cool. Besides, somehow, a viewer updated my Wikipedia page and it says I’m twenty-three, and I never got around to correcting it.”
“Well, I am so glad we resolved this issue. You are clearly not in contention.”
He reaches out and briefly touches my arm. Then he looks me straight in the eyes and says, “It’s a shame.”
He’s serious. At least, I think he’s serious. My breath catches, and my heart skips, and I want to go back in time and rewrite the age rules for my Trophy Husband game. Let them be thirty or younger, even though that makes no logical sense. But hearts aren’t logical and my heart wants Chris to play. I don’t know what to say next though, so I return to the one topic I can handle — business. Besides, I made a pact with my girlfriends. They’ve had my back, and I can’t let them down. This isn’t about me. This is about the point, the pursuit, the game.
“So, what can I do for you? You’re helping me and I don’t want this to be a one-way street. I’ve got to be able to do something to help you out, though truth be told, most of my viewers are young women and I’m not sure how many are gamers.”
“You play,” he points out. I like that he’s willing to change directions so quickly, that he doesn’t keep harping on some philosophical question, or practical question, neither of which I have answers to.
“Well, yes, but I’m just a casual fan.”
“Exactly. And a lot of young women are. In fact, the female gamer is one of the fastest growing categories in the whole video game business,” Chris says excitedly. “I’m actually starting a new show in a couple months targeted for women who are sort of the casual online gamers, but new to the console games. And I need to get the word out, promote my new show.”
I nod. “So we do a cross-promo, maybe? You’re thinking some of those girls who watch my show might want to try a little Guitar Hero?”
“Guitar Hero? Did you just say Guitar Hero? That game isn’t even made anymore.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize that,” I say, feeling stupid. “Someone gave it to me a few years ago. It looked kind of fun. I think I played it once, but I haven’t been able to find my copy since.”
“Hey. I didn’t mean to sound like a gamer snob.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t.”
“I mean, it’s a totally awesome game. You should definitely play it more. I was just saying I think chicks are getting into other games too. The shooter games, the sports games, even just trivia games. They’re all taking off into the mainstream, especially with hot young chicks, like yourself.”
It’s my turn to blush now. He said it again. Hot chick.
“Oh look,” he points at me. “Now you’re cute blushing.”
“I guess we’re just a bunch of cute blushers.”
He smiles again, and then places his palm on my wrist, and that single gesture of his hand on my skin melts me. And while there’s a part of me that wants the kitchen table fantasy with Chris, I also want the other side with him too. The part where I let him into my heart and my soul, the part where we get to know each other. Because right now, I want to lean forward and taste his sweet lips. I want to hop into his lap and wrap my arms around his neck and smother him in kisses. I haven’t felt this way in years. I don’t even know what to do with all this wanting. I want to spend the day with him. To wander around the city, and stop in shops, and grab a coffee, and talk, and get to know him, and ignore my phone because he’s so much more interesting than any text message could ever be. I look at his hand, resting on me, and it’s almost enough for me to throw the whole Trophy Husband quest away, to just ask this guy to spend more time with me. But I don’t know how to back down, or how to let go. Most of all, I don’t know how to begin to let someone into my wounded heart. I don’t even know if my heart is healed, or if the scar tissue has just grown so thick and knotty that no one can ever touch me again.
So I return to a subject I can handle. Games. “Speaking of games, I kicked ass at Qbert when I was a kid. My parents were totally into this retro bowling alley near our house, and it had all the classic arcade games.”
“I was a Mario Brothers man myself.”
I reach for a fry and dip it into a lime-ginger sauce. “I loved that game. I used to play for hours, bouncing from square to square, trying to avoid Coily and the gremlins, trying to jump on discs. I went from level to level, to the white and green level, then to the ones where you just saw the tops of the squares…” I take a bite of the French fry. “I miss Qbert. And I mean the real Qbert, with the diagonal joystick, the pixilated graphics, the funky sounds.”
I notice Chris has a devilish little smile on his face, that one side of his mouth is curled up.
“What?”
“I have Qbert.”
“For the Playstation, you mean?”
Chris shakes his head. “I have the real Qbert.”
“The arcade Qbert?”
He nods proudly a few times.
“You have Qbert, arcade Qbert?”
“The real deal. In my living room.”
“I am having visions of eighth grade now. I am having visions of Silverspinner Lanes and me getting the high score, punching my initials in for all the world to see.”
“Bet you can’t beat my high score.”
“Oh, you think you can take me on in Qbert?”
“I do.”
“You are on.”
He holds out a hand to shake, and I have to wonder if he’s trying to find ways to touch me too. If he’s liking this little flirty stuff as much as I do. If he’s imagined more than flirting, more than lunches, more than kissing too.
“You’ll have to come over sometime and we’ll have a Qbert match,” he announces and then digs back into his chicken sandwich.
Now, take me to your house now. Show me Qbert, and let me play, and kiss my neck as I move the joystick. Then brush my hair aside and flick your tongue against my earlobe, and make me shiver so much that Qbert dies and I don’t care, because all I want to do is turn around and have you kiss me so deeply and so much that I can feel your kiss all the way through my veins.
* * *
After we finish, we leave the restaurant. As we walk down Union Street, I notice that Chris is a few inches taller than I am. I don’t often meet men who are much taller. I like the feeling of being next to someone who is.
“You know something about those fries?”
“What about those fries, Chris?”
“I will eat them in the rain. And in the dark. And on a train. And in a car. And in a tree.”
“They are so good, so good, you see.”