chapter fifteen
A STOCKY MAN WITH bulging steroid biceps, in a matching yellow helmet and suspenders, grinds his junk over Grandma Flo to the rhythm of “Pony” by Ginuwine. It’s the last thing I thought I’d ever bear witness to. I am in desperate need of eye bleach. Stat. Unfortunately, this image is burned into my memory for all of eternity.
Compelled to preserve the spectacle to scar future generations to come, I took multiple videos. The footage is shaky at best. It’s difficult to hear the music over the high-pitched squealing in the background, partially thanks to the martinis. Grandma Flo’s howling laughter is unmistakable as she snakes her hands up and down the man’s bare, generously oiled chest while her lifelong best friends, Annie and Ethel, crowd around, snapping blurry photos with their massive iPads.
It was Annie and Ethel’s idea to attend Ladies’ Night at a strip club for Grandma’s bachelorette party. Tara kindly ordered an array of phallus-shaped sugar cookies of all colors, girths, and lengths. Given Grandma Flo’s pearl-clutching tendencies, I was certain the whole thing was going to go tits up—that she’d find the night’s activities crude and “unbecoming.” But all my fears were hung out to dry when she mock–deep throated one of the penis cookies for a photo, without prompting.
Who is this woman? This surely can’t be the same Grandma who washed my mouth out with Dove bar soap when I was ten after I uttered the word hell on a Sunday—“the Lord’s Day”—of all days. It’s certainly not the same woman who strong-armed my religiously indifferent parents into sending Tara and me to Bible camp for three consecutive summers. I’m beginning to think she’s been kidnapped by aliens, replaced by a much cooler replica—up until she matter-of-factly informs Tara she’ll “never keep a man” if she doesn’t learn how to cook.
I stealthily slip outside for a breather, parking myself on the sidewalk, crunching one of the penis cookies I snagged. Aside from the threat of an unwanted lap dance, the club was starting to feel cramped and hot from one too many martinis. The music, strobe lights, and fog machine didn’t help, not that the plumes of cigarette smoke, the steaming garbage, and a hint of sewage outside are much of an improvement.
In my tipsy state, I have this nagging urge to show someone the video. And the only other person who will fully appreciate its eccentricity is Scott. We’ve been texting back and forth since our sorbet hangout last week. Our texts have been constant today while at our respective grandparents’ bachelor parties. Scott has apparently achieved “best friend” status with Dad. He’s even sent me selfies of the two of them golfing together to prove it.
RITCHIE_SCOTTY7
Wow. I can’t unsee that vid. Ever.
CURVYFITNESSCRYSTAL
Right? It should be illegal.
RITCHIE_SCOTTY7
It’s your own fault. I volunteered to step in. Then you guys would have had a real fireman over 5 feet tall.
CURVYFITNESSCRYSTAL
LOL.
Truthfully, the vision of Scott grinding over Grandma Flo is probably more disturbing than the professional stripper. I shudder at the thought.
RITCHIE_SCOTTY7
Haha, I’m kidding. I’m not good on the pole. Better in photos.
CURVYFITNESSCRYSTAL
Are you in a calendar or not?
RITCHIE_SCOTTY7
Damn, you are so thirsty to know.
CURVYFITNESSCRYSTAL
I’m not. Forget I asked.
RITCHIE_SCOTTY7
Hint, I’m the month of June.
Your dad is pretty drunk FYI. His face is very red lol.
CURVYFITNESSCRYSTAL
Tell him to stop drinking. He gets the Asian flush!
RITCHIE_SCOTTY7
I’ll try. He’s a riot. I’m slowly getting him to reveal all your childhood secrets.
CURVYFITNESSCRYSTAL
. . .
RITCHIE_SCOTTY7
He told me about when you ran across the stage naked at your preschool grad. Bold move.
CURVYFITNESSCRYSTAL
Stop talking about me!
RITCHIE_SCOTTY7
Impossible.
CURVYFITNESSCRYSTAL
In my defense, that dress was itchy. I have a thing against itchy fabric.
RITCHIE_SCOTTY7
Your dad just gave me permission to date you.
Oh and marry you, apparently.
CURVYFITNESSCRYSTAL
I’m so glad my dad is securing my future because I’m oh so incapable. Pass along my sincere gratitude.
My phone vibrates with an incoming FaceTime. From Dad.
His rosy, smiling face pops up on the screen in front of a wood-paneled wall with a dartboard.
I wave at the camera. “Hi, Dad.”
He gives me a toothy smile. “Crystal!” he shouts over the loud classic rock music in the background.
Scott’s head suddenly appears in the frame beside Dad. “Tell your daughter what you just told me.”
Dad looks directly into the camera. “Scotty has my permission to ask for your hand in marriage.”
I give an exaggerated raised brow. “Do I get a say in this?”
In typical social butterfly fashion, Dad gets sidetracked and abruptly disappears from the frame, abandoning his phone in Scott’s capable hands. I can see Dad in the background, high-fiving one of Martin’s friends. Scott looks like he’s walking away from the crowd to take refuge in a quieter area of the bar.
“Hey, I’d make a damn fine husband. I’m very low maintenance,” Scott declares with confidence.
“I don’t get that impression. You’re quite needy . . . passing out in clinics, constantly needing your ego stroked and such.”
“Minor details. I really only require two things. Regular sex and food.”
“That’s a tall order,” I tease.
My skin prickles at the sight of his dimples. “Wanna get married if we’re both forty and still single?” he asks.
“What? Like a marriage pact?” I clear my throat at the horrifying-but-not-so-horrifying thought of giving him regular sex and home-cooked meals. You’d really have to twist my arm . . . not.
He shrugs casually, as if he’s merely asked me to play on his rec league baseball team. “Lots of friends have them.”
I give him a slow head shake. Before I can respond, he begins to squint at the camera, his lips curving upward in pure amusement. “Are you holding a penis cookie?”
I nearly choke on a tiny piece that accidentally went down the wrong pipe. “Maybe.”
“It’s, uh, very veiny,” he observes. “Are those black specks supposed to be pubes?”
“Indeed. And it’s delectable, I’ll have you know. I have extras. Maybe I’ll even bring you one. If you’re good.”
A wide smile overtakes his entire face. “There are so many things I could say right now.”
“Please don’t.”
He makes a zipper motion across his mouth. He leans in farther toward the camera. “Where are you?”
“Sitting on the curb outside the strip club.”
“Why aren’t you inside? Are you okay? That’s not a great area of town.” His voice deepens with concern.
“Just feeling a little spinny. I’m good. I think I’m gonna call an Uber and head home early.”
“Stay there, okay? I’ll come wait with you. I’m about two blocks away at the pub.”
I arch my brow. “You seem to be an expert on the location of the strip club. Are you a frequent customer? A VIP?”
He scoffs. “Ha ha, very funny. You told me you were at Diamonds earlier. I’ve been there once for my buddy’s bachelor party. Thanks, though.”
“Mm-hmm . . .” My voice trails off as I peer around, the distant wail of a siren growing louder. There’s a seedy-looking dude in zebra-print pants and a thick gold chain loitering in front of the dingy alleyway to my left, casting his shifty eyes every which way.
“Stay where you are. I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Scott orders before the call goes dead.
• • •
“MISS, SPARE SOME change?” a raspy voice sounds.
My eyes snap open. Did I just fall asleep? And for how long?
Bleary-eyed, I turn to spot a rail-thin homeless man wearing two jackets approaching on my right. He looks terribly hungry and in need of a warm meal. “I’ll check.” I scramble to search the forgotten depths of my purse. God knows what lurks down there. I have no idea if I even have any change. Who carries cash with them anymore?
Fingers hopelessly tangled in my headphone cords, I uncover one lone, half-squished Skittle and a two-year-old receipt from Trader Joe’s. Just as I manage to locate a rogue dollar, a shadow towers over us.
It’s a monstrously tall, muscular figure with ashy hair winging out of a black ball cap. This guy fills out a Henley like a sexy, rugged, recluse farmer who just so happens to have bulging biceps from slinging a bale of hay or two. Sleeves rolled up to accentuate his forearms, he spends his days taming wild horses and aimlessly riding his tractor over terrain of varying degrees of difficulty. He stubbornly refuses to sell the land that’s belonged to his family for millennia to evil corporate developers from the big bad city. My focus sharpens slightly as the streetlight catches his green eyes.
I wheeze. It’s Scott. Suddenly, I wish I’d worn something lower cut than my turtleneck bodysuit. At least I’m wearing semi-flattering jeans and heels.
Scott hands him a crisp twenty-dollar bill. “Here, man.”
The man bows his head, gratefully reaching for the bill. “Thank you. God bless.”
“Have a good night!” I call after him, now practically horizontal on the sidewalk. It isn’t just the alcohol that’s knocked the wind out of me. It’s Scott’s decency. His kindness. Most people just dart right past homeless people without a second glance. Had I been sober and in a rush, I probably would have too.
Scott kneels down, studying my face while still keeping a watchful side-eye on the man in the zebra-print pants. “You shouldn’t be out here alone like this.”
“Why not? I’m fineeee. I was gonna call an Uber or walk home. I only live a few blocks away,” I slur, unable to refrain from staring at him like he’s a full bag of Sweet Chili Heat Doritos.
“Where’s your mom? Or Tara?”
“They’re still inside. Probably getting lap dances. One guy looks like Tom Brady. We’re obsessedddd with the lad.” For reasons unknown, I’ve randomly decided it’s as good a time as any to bust out a British accent.
“Are you pretending to be British?” His voice shakes with suppressed laughter.
“A Geordie. You know, from the north. My new client is from there,” I dutifully explain. “She was talking about her weight in stone the other day. I had to use a stone-to-pound converter. And then she talked about how she used to hook up with a lot of guys in university. She called it pulling.”
Scott’s face contorts in confusion. “Pulling?”
“Yeah, like, I used to pull all the lads.” I giggle, clapping my hand over my mouth, fully aware I’ve royally butchered her amazing accent.
“Wow. Please say that again. It’s such a turn-on,” he teases.
“I’m feeling like a real radgie,” I mimic her, containing my laughter.
He half-smiles. “Alright, Crystal from Northern England. I think it’s time for me to take you home.”
“Is that a promise?” I ask, brutally failing to make my voice low and sexy. It sounds like I have laryngitis and possibly swallowed a couple hairballs. Maybe I am more than tipsy.
“You know what I mean.” He rolls his eyes and grabs my hands. His forearms flex as he pulls me up. “Can you walk or do you want me to get you an Uber?”
“Pffttt. Of course I can walk.” It’s a half-truth. I can walk. Just not in a completely straight line. But who needs to walk in a straight line?
He wraps his big arms around my waist and guides me down the sidewalk, preventing me from pirouetting into oncoming traffic. I try my best to remain as discreet as possible while sniffing him, marinating in his intoxicating green-bar-soap scent. I want to ask him how he maintains his freshly showered aroma after a full day of golf. Is it witchcraft? Blessed genetics?
“Alright. You’re not making it on foot.” He whips out his phone and clicks around. “Your chariot will be here in five minutes. What’s Tara’s number? I’m texting her to tell her you’re going home.”
I shrug, pausing to lean against a spiderweb-laden lamppost. Who knows people’s phone numbers anymore? “There’s a three . . . and a four. Maybe a seven.”
He sighs, extending his hand. “Give me your phone.”
I manage to locate it in my purse without struggle. “Here. But you better not go on my Tinder again.”
He raises a brow as he pulls up my texts. “Still Tindering, huh?”
“Nah. Haven’t been doing that lately. It’s too sad.”
He looks up from my phone. “Too sad?”
I toss my hands in the air, momentarily distracted by a jeep whizzing by blasting music. “I don’t want to do random hookups anymore.”
He nods, hurriedly completing the text. He leans in to drop my phone back in my bag. “Looking for something more serious?”
I take my shoe off to massage the blister forming on the side of my foot, still using the lamppost for support. “I guess so. I don’t really know what I’m looking for, to be honest. My last relationship ended badly. Makes me scared to date anyone at all.”
“Ah, right. Trust issues.” He holds me captive with his mesmerizing stare, his gorgeous eyes glowing under the streetlight. They’re so vibrant, you could see them from space. “Is that why you won’t go on a date with me?”
I shove my foot into my shoe again, taken aback. I’m going to need both feet planted on the ground for this. Since our argument in the clinic parking lot, he hasn’t seriously brought up dating again. Despite our flirting, I assumed the topic was off the table. “I didn’t know you were still interested.”
He lets out a soft laugh as he drags his hand through his hair, an act that never fails to disarm me. “Seriously? I only text you a million times a day.” He pauses. “I’m interested, Crys. But you made it clear you just wanted to be friends, so I haven’t brought it up.”
“Aside from trying to lure me into a marriage pact,” I remind him.
“Believe me, I’d rather date you long before I’m forty. But I’ll take what I can get.”
Goose bumps erupt on my arms as he comes into sharp focus. I stare at him for a few moments, imagining what it would be like to go on a date with Scott Ritchie. My stomach flutters at the mere thought, until it’s washed away with a twist to the chest I call “reality.” I can’t repeat the mistakes of the past. “I can’t, Scotty. And it isn’t because I’m not interested.”
He deflates a little. “Then what is it?”
I drag my palms down my cheeks. I have no idea how he’s going to take this. “Lots of reasons. Mainly because our families are joining. And you just got out of a relationship.”
His mouth opens slightly as he studies me for a few breaths. His brows relax with what looks like a blend of confusion and relief. “Really? That’s why?”
“I like you. I really do. But I don’t want to be your rebound while you pine over your ex. I was a rebound with my last ex, Neil, and then he went back to the girl he dated before me.”
His forehead creases. “Diana and I didn’t get along the majority of our relationship. We should have been over months before we actually ended things. Trust me, I won’t be going back to her.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to . . . I just don’t want to get hurt again. Maybe I’d chance it if you were just a random guy I met at the gym, but our grandparents are getting married. I don’t want things to be weird if it doesn’t work out.” I turn my eyes away, trying to find a spot on the pavement to stare at, but everything is still spinning. Scott senses my loss of balance and wraps one arm around my waist, stabilizing me.
I desperately want to believe him when he says things are over for good with Diana. But then I remember how Neil used to say how “done” he was with Cammie. He’d go on and on about how glad he was to be rid of her, and how she never crossed his mind. Looking back, it’s clear he was compensating for the fact that he did think about her, probably all the time while he was with me.
I don’t question that Scott is genuine. He’s practically bursting at the seams with good intentions. But feelings are complicated. It’s only been a few weeks since they broke up. He could be more heartbroken than he’s letting on, or than he even realizes. He needs time to work out his underlying feelings before I end up suffering the consequences.
Scott squeezes my shoulders affectionately, his fingers gently stroking in a circular motion. “Why are you so sure it won’t work out?”
“Because it never has before, for me. Especially not with guys who’ve just gotten out of relationships.”
“Okay. I get it. But can I just ask, how long ’til it’s no longer a rebound?”
I glance at the midnight sky for answers, but end up toppling to the side, straight into Scott’s chest. His grip tightens. “I don’t know? At least three months.” I haven’t the faintest clue where three months came from. It has no historic relevance in the deep recesses of my mind. It’s completely arbitrary.
He nods in consideration. “Three months from the date I broke up with Diana, huh? That takes us to exactly August sixth. The day of our grandparents’ wedding. Will you at least consider a date then? We could take it really slow. To be really sure.”
I light up like a Christmas tree. Heat courses through my body as I fight to suppress my toothy smile. It gives me hope that he’s serious. Serious enough to wait for me. “You’d really wait that long?” I ask. “I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you got bored and stuck your fingers in a few more pies.”
He doesn’t laugh at my shitty joke. In fact, his expression is so pure and earnest I’m reduced to a quivering specimen in the middle of the sidewalk. “Crystal, I won’t.” He pauses and digs his phone out of his pocket. “I’m setting the date in my calendar. August sixth. Get ready for it.”