“Same with Simon. I wonder if they—” I stopped as Sophia exited the bathroom.
The sweatshirt was now tied around her waist, the revealed tank top tight. Her hair was braided, bangs swept back revealing a clean, shining face. Lip gloss had been added; a little blush too. The girl was stunning once more; you just can’t keep that kind of beauty buried for too long. But what made every man and more than a few women do a double take were her double D’s. Accentuated more than ever by the purposeful rip she’d given her tank top, perfectly highlighting each D to its full potential.
“Can you believe I was ever worried about gaining a little weight? Look how great my tits look!” she announced as she came back to the table. “Let’s head over to the park and pick up hot boys. Let’s see how many I can get to stop jogging with these,” she said, pulling a wad of cash from her purse and throwing it on the table.
I couldn’t help but laugh as she dragged a protesting Mimi away from her food. Sophia was back on the prowl, and she took out two busboys on her way out of the diner.
? ? ?
I went to the park just long enough to see that Sophia was indeed back out of her coma. I doubted she was actually over the situation with Neil, but sometimes you have to pretend to be feeling better to actually feel better. It’s why new workout clothes make you feel like you want to work out.
I was still waiting for that one to turn out to be true . . .
I begged off staying the whole afternoon on the grounds that I had a Wallbanger in my bed, which needed no further explanation. As I turned the corner onto my street after hopping off the trolley, I thought about what Mimi had said earlier, about needing to see Ryan every day. They could easily do that: Both had jobs in the city and rarely traveled for work. Mimi was a professional organizer, helping families declutter and clean up, while Ryan headed up a nonprofit that helped put computers into schools in low-income areas.
Would I like to see Simon every day? Of course I would—the speed bump abs alone are worth the price of admission. But more than that, we just . . . worked well together. There was an ease to our relationship that I had never had with anyone else, maybe because we became friends first. And while we had our share of raised eyebrows like every couple, we rarely fought. Maybe because we spent less time together than regular couples.
I shook my head as I walked up my stairs. It didn’t matter why we worked, we just did. And since Simon would continue to be in demand professionally, we’d continue to make it work long-distance. I liked the idea of an unconventional romance, especially since the beginning of ours was so much so.
I’d been on a dating freeze after a one-night stand with He Who Shall Not Be Named (read Cory Weinstein) scared my orgasm into hiding, disappearing from the earth entirely. Going, going, gone it was; no good-bye, no nice knowing you. Just gone. I’d attempted to recover the O by bringing back a few tried-and-true partners, but no go. And of course I’d tried to reconnect by using the Holy Trinity of Fantasy Lovers (the Leto, the Damon, and the Holy Clooney), but even by my own hand, the O had left the building. Finally Simon and I were able to conjure her again in a poof of flour on the floor of my kitchen, surrounded by raisins and honey.
And speaking of unconventional, Simon had never dated anyone in the traditional sense. When I met him he was king of the Friends with Benefits scenario, with an actual harem. As Simon and I were becoming friends in those early days, he’d confided that all the women he’d ever dated seemed to want the same thing: a white picket fence. I convinced him that in fact not all women want that, especially this woman in particular. I’d told him, “The right woman for you wouldn’t want you to change anything about your life. She wouldn’t rock your boat, she’d jump right in and sail it with you.”
I used to date someone who wanted me to be his picket fencer, his own personal Mrs. Stepford. Or Mrs. James Brown, in this scenario. Lawyer, not Godfather of Soul, to be clear.
Picket fences? Thanks, but no thanks. I liked my life, I liked our life—it was pretty great.
A perfect example was our living situation. As I put the key in my lock, I looked across the landing to his apartment door. When he was home we tended to spend most of our time at my place, but I liked that we still had our own apartments. I’d lived with roommates most of my adult life, and even though I was technically subletting from Jillian (no way would I ever be able to afford this amazing apartment without her rent control), it was still my own space.