The Hot One

So I sit up, drag my hands through my hair, and try to figure out what the hell to do.

Trevor is such a catch.

He’s so normal.

And fun.

And witty.

And similar enough to me.

And thoughtful.

He’s exactly the type of guy I wanted to date during my last spin of the dating merry-go-round more than a year ago. Why the hell didn’t I meet a guy like Trevor then? Instead, my wanna-get-a-coffee adventures with the opposite sex consisted of a guy who texted me obsessively pre-and post-date, never once using a complete word in his texts, another who confessed to being a big fan of tickling (the date didn’t last long enough for me to learn if he was a tickler or ticklee), and finally a buff, muscular banker who spent our date sharing the details of his workout routine and the bond market. I’m not sure which was more dull, the amount of weight he bench pressed or the amount of money he’d invested.

But no Trevors.

Not a single one.

And now here’s this perfectly normal guy walking into my life without a dick pic, a fetish, or a narcissistic bone to be seen.

I should be writing back to him with a goofy smile on my face. I should be parked cross-legged on my bed, grinning happily as I tap out an equally witty and sweet reply. I should share his email with Penny and Nicole, oohing and ahhing over each word.

Instead, my stomach churns.

I don’t want to feel this way.

I try to center myself with a few deep breaths. I imagine my massage room, and I pretend I hear the gentle patter of falling rain. I let it wash away the strange sense that I’ve done something wrong.

I haven’t. Have I?

That thing this morning in the mailroom has nothing to do with this email, and vice versa.

I head to the mirror on the back of my closet door and check out my outfit for tonight’s Girls’ Night Out—jeans, a slouchy emerald green top that slopes off one shoulder, and a pair of silvery pumps that Penny picked up for me when she and Gabriel traveled to Paris last month. “Quarante-et-un,” Penny declared with excitement, using the French word for my shoe size as she presented them to me. “They have gobs of size 41 shoes in Paris, and I couldn’t resist these.”

As I appraise the shiny shoes in the mirror, I imagine Tyler’s reaction to them. The way his eyes would linger on the heels, the throaty growl that would rumble up his chest, how he’d push me against the wall, cage me in, and whisper hot, dirty words in my ear about what he wanted to do to me while I wear nothing but these shoes.

My hand drifts over my belly, then down, down. My eyes float closed as a blast of heat floods my body. A pulse beats between my legs as I imagine what happens next. All my late-night fantasies suddenly feel thrillingly real.

Like they can happen. Like they will happen. My fingers travel lower over my clothes. A gasp rushes across my lips, and shockingly, I find I’m aroused just from that fleeting vision.

I’m so ridiculously aroused I’m about to touch myself again.

Get it together.

I open my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, as if I can ward off the fantasies. This thing with my ex is just physical, right? It’s butterflies and tingles. It’s sizzle and spark. It’s a man who has my number. My interest in him is like my lust for a pair of shoes.

That’s all.

Nothing more.

There can’t be anything more to it.

My phone buzzes, vibrating on my bed.

I stride over, grab it and slide open a group message from my girls. Nicole says she’s on her way to the wig shop. Penny chimes in that she’s running a few minutes late. I hastily reply that I’m on my way.

Grabbing my wristlet, I stuff my phone inside and ignore Trevor’s message as I catch a subway downtown.

I’ll write back later.

On the train, I stare at my shoes the whole time, daydreaming.





16





Tyler



* * *



The yo-yo soars in a wide circle, around and back down. I punch the air as Carly lands her second trick.

She jumps in the park, squealing.

“Around the world! You did it.” I hold up my palm and she slams hers against it. “Who rocks?”

She giggles and points to herself. “I do.”

“You absolutely do.”

Earlier in the week, she mastered walk-the-dog. Yep, I’m going to teach her a whole slew of yo-yo tricks. Shocking in a world of Candy Crush and Pokémon Go, but we do all kinds of shit that doesn’t involve a phone or a battery. I’m an old-school uncle. She’ll have plenty of time to stare at screens all throughout her life, but it doesn’t have to be on my watch.

“You are the yo-yo master,” I tell her.

“Can you teach me some more?”

“Absolutely.”

We tackle the elevator trick, as I show her how to make the yo-yo look like it’s rising up along the string. It’s a tough one, and after a few tries, she decides she wants to scale the rock climbing wall, so I head over there with her and stand behind her as she climbs.

“How’s second grade treating you, little lady? You learning about complex algebra and writing essays on Shakespeare yet?”

She narrows her eyes as she looks back at me from a purple handhold. “Who’s Shakespeare?”

I set my hands on my hips. “Only the most famous poet and playwright of all time. But you’ll get to him soon enough.”

“Did you know I’m learning how to do big multiplication?” she asks as she grabs a red climbing divot on the wall.

“Tell me more.”

As she moves up and down and across the wall, she updates me on second-grade math, and how she’s moved way past easy stuff like eight times eight and onto bigger numbers like twelve times sixteen, which sounds damn impressive for a second grader to me.

“I’m advanced at math,” she says as she hops down, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Beyond second grade level.”

I arch an eyebrow. “That so?”

“Is so.”

“Well, what’s fourteen times thirteen, then?”

She closes her eyes, and draws on an imaginary chalkboard with her finger, mouthing the multiplication. “One hundred eighty-two,” she says as she opens her eyes.

I nod approvingly.

“My teacher says the key is to follow the steps. Don’t cut corners, and take your time.”

“Smart teacher. That’s not bad advice at all. Matter of fact, that’s great advice on just about everything.”

We leave the park and head through the streets to meet up with her parents, chatting about the type of poetry she’d write if she were a famous poet someday.

“And I’d make sure to take my time,” she adds.

I linger on the notion of time, wondering how much I have with Delaney. What will it take to win her over? How many days or nights will she give me? But I also wonder what I’m trying to accomplish. Sometimes, I focus so much on the doing that I don’t always think about the why. Do I want to go back to the way it was with us or start something new entirely?