Not now.
Not when I’m hiding.
Not when I have to be on top of my game and not under some guy who doesn’t even know my real name.
35
Jack
Doughnut holes might have been the wrong thing to bring. She eats them, but then she wants to know if I go out with a lot of girls, the message clear that guys who go out with lots of girls know enough not to bring doughnuts. I tell her the truth, maybe because no matter how this goes, it’s not destined to be a lasting relationship where things you said at the beginning come back to bite you later.
I say, “There was one long thing, not much else.”
“When did it end? It did end, right?”
“Six weeks ago. Something like that.”
She screws up her face. “Was she an evil bitch?”
“No.”
She tosses a doughnut hole at my face, presumably aiming for my mouth.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not looking for touchy-feely. I’m just not helping you two-time anybody while we have a good time.”
“Do people say ‘two-time’ this century?”
“They should.”
I have my hands on her shoulders, and all I want to do is kiss her and anything else she’ll go along with. I slip my hands under her big shirt, fingers against her skin, which is so soft, softer than you’d expect, softer than Scarlett.
She says, “Uh. Not that good a time.”
This is when my phone vibrates again. Don has a seemingly endless supply of cell phone minutes and an unerring ability to call when I least want to hear from him. She’s pressed against me, so she feels the phone’s vibration.
“Speak of the devil,” she says. “Is this her? And if it is, you’d better lie because I’ll hand you your ass tied up in ribbons.”
“You’ll hand me my six-foot ass with your hundred-pound-girl hands?”
“Does your girlfriend like it when the six-foot ass tells sexist jokes?” She sighs. “Not that you can’t see tons of other girls. It’s not like we’re together or anything. Just not one cheated-on one.”
“No girlfriend.”
I take her hand, and this time she doesn’t pull away from me. The phone starts buzzing again, and I tighten my grip. There has to be some other way out of this damn yellow wood, a shortcut I can find before Yeager finds it for me.
Somewhere in this confusion, there’s a workable syllogism.
Cat is girl; I like Cat; therefore, I don’t dispose of Cat?
Then I think, Hurray for me; I only get rid of girls I don’t like. What a stand-up guy. I only get rid of girls I don’t like who cut the throats of people I do like. And I only do that when my pathologically dishonest brother says my mom dies if the girl doesn’t.
Girl-whose-pants-he’s-trying-to-get-into versus mom-he’d-prefer-not-to-see-burned, and the guy stands there lusting after the girl in a converted garage, waffling about whether he’s going to answer the phone and deal with his shit brother. What a sick story that makes.
She says, “Did I just do something?”
“You want to finish eating carbs and go for a run?”
“Those are my choices? Let you take my shirt off me or run around the block? Very romantic.”
“I saw you running in the park. You run.”
She grins. “I hope you’re not the competitive type because I’m going to run circles around you.” She stretches out her legs straight in front of her, points her toes, and bends until she’s folded on herself.
“A little overconfident, are we?” I say as she looks up to see if I noticed how limber she is. I noticed. “You want to go right now?”
“Later, okay?”
Of course running should happen later, when it’s dark and no one who’s looking for her can spot her. “If that’s not romantic enough, I can always recite poetry to you. We know how much you love that. Two rooooooads diverged in a yellow wood . . .”
“Kill me now,” she says.
I can’t help flinching.
She’s very close to me, still touching my hand, as if she wants me to touch her again—about time—but as I’m reaching for her, she flops back against the pillows. “You’re not obsessed with poetry, right?”
“?‘The Road Not Taken’ is the story of my life, but you don’t have to like it.”
“Don’t get upset, but that poet guy was probably tromping through the woods to drop in on his mistress,” she says.
“Did Robert Frost rise from the grave to tell you that?”
“Poets! Take Shakespeare. And that poem is for his coy mistress.”
“Not Shakespeare, Andrew Marvell. I thought the coy mistress was his wife.”
“You don’t think he was cheating with some coy girl?” she demands. Obviously, she does. “It’s all about getting girls on their backs,” she says. “Geez, Had we but world enough, and time, but we don’t, so lie down? Give me a break.”