Page 10 of Book Boyfriends
As if my mojo is submerged in quick-drying cement, I’m stuck. It’s not the lack of creative ideas. The notebook beside me, pages filled with my sloppy handwriting, is proof there is no shortage of ideas. Something happens between the idea and its execution. Like my love life, it’s stalled out.
“I give up.” Frowning, I close my laptop, set it to the side, and fall back against the couch. I let the plush softness soothe the annoyance that ripples inside me.
The movement causes Wentworth to stir. He crawls on top of me, his heavy body nuzzling in as I stroke his silky coat.
Four years ago, Wentworth showed up, ribs sticking out and his coat matted, behind SPN. My office window overlooks the back parking lot, and I spotted him there, lying beneath one of the small trees at the sidewalk’s edge. He just slept and periodically poked his head up to watch staff or visitors come and go.
Each time I snuggle with this now chunky love nugget, I’m reminded of how the facility’s director worried this little sweetheart was dangerous. After animal services picked him up, I called daily to check on him. No chip. No collar. Nobody else claimed him, so I did.
“Who needs a boyfriend, in a book or in real life, when I have you?” I massage his floppy ears, which elicits a flurry of kisses.
Bad dates I can deal with. It’s become the norm. While I have hope that my story will come with great love—like the kind in my books—I can live without it. I have so far. But the idea that it won’t include writing is almost too much to bear. For every start and stop of a story in the past, the words always came. Now, they remain tucked inside somewhere deep, in a place I don’t know, and I don’t have a map to find it.
Forget wallowing. I choose pastries. The gluten-free blueberry scone drizzled with lemon glaze that awaits me may not coax the words out of me, but it will console me until they come.
“Let’s go see Aunt Hope.” I motion for Wentworth to jump off me so I can change and head out.
Hope and I have been best friends since her family moved next door to mine when we were ten. Her physician parentsmet while working for an international healthcare organization. After they married, they first settled in Boston until Hope’s mother, Emmie, took a position at UC Irvine’s Medical School. Lucky for me, they settled in Tustin, buying the red-roofed, tan Spanish-style house next to my parents’ grey Victorian. From the moment she appeared with pink glittered barrettes in her thick red curls, I fell in insta-love with my bestie.
Twenty-two years later, my affection for Hope is only stronger. We still meet each Saturday in my childhood backyard. Only now, it’s Rem’s backyard, and instead of choreographing dances to our favorite pop songs, we drink bottomless mimosas. Thanks to my catering business mogul best friend, the many freshly baked, gluten-free pastries she serves help soak up the booze.
“Let me help,” I say, striding toward the patio, Wentworth in tow.
Hope is shuffling through the glass doors that spill onto the red brick patio, a large tray of baked goods and fruit in her hands. “I’ve got it.” She shakes her head. “You’re as bad as your brother. I’m not infirm; I’m just knocked up.”
The other difference from the good old days is that my beautiful best friend is not just married to Rem, but seven-and-a-half-months-along with the Lane Family’s next generation. There was nothing on my life bingo card that had my often grumpy, always tucks in his shirts–even T-shirts–attorney older brother marrying my bestie.
Seven years older, Rem is the quintessential big brother. At eighteen, he’d gone off to college in San Francisco but transferred a year later to a school closer to home after our mother’s multiple sclerosis—MS—diagnosis. Our parents had divorced six months prior and dad had split for a gig as an instructor at an art school in Paris. Rem came home to help care for me and Jackson. Despite mom’s protest, he insisted.
Twenty-one years later, and he’s still here. As am I. My brother took over Mom’s house after she moved into an adaptive apartment seven years ago. It was only my first year after getting my masters in social work, and finances were tight, so I was still at home. Rem had lived in the carriage house apartment at the back of the property, so we swapped after he took ownership of the house.
“You’d think I was made of porcelain,” she says, placing the tray on the patio table.
Plopping into a chair, I pour orange juice into champagne flutes while Wentworth settles at my feet. “Maybe he’ll bubble wrap you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t give him any ideas.” She adds Prosecco to my glass. “Drink up, you’re drinking for two these days since I’m abstaining for two.”
I take my glass and salute her. “Is he being more overprotective than normal?”
Rem is the classic older brother. There’s an almost always present annoyance with me,especially me, and Jackson below the surface, but that aggravation came with fierce protectiveness. That vigilance extends to Hope. Though, what appeared as mere affection for his younger sister’s best friend morphed into the type of love I write about in my books. The firm line usually glued to Rem’s face melts in Hope’s presence, especially after she’d moved back home to start her catering business six years ago.
After culinary school, Hope moved to Los Angeles to work her way up in some of the finest restaurants. Tiring of the sexist assholes with their micro and full-on aggressions tossed at a young female chef, she broke out on her own. Hope used her savings, got a small business loan, and moved back in with her parents to start Good Girls Grub, a food truck-based catering company. Fresh out of business school, Jackson offeredfinancial advice, I gave moral support, and Rem lent legal counsel for contracts.
Those legal conversations got lengthier, and Jackson swore they were eye-fucking each other each time they were in the same room. I’d told him that he thinks everyone is eye-fucking. Jackson, of course, was extra smug after they told us they were going to start dating each other. Fast forward a year, and Hope went from best friend to sister-in-law/bestie.
Hand placed on her round belly, she takes a chair across from me. “He’s just a little more tightly wound than normal. It’s first-time daddy anxiety. All the books talk about this.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine once Boudica comes along.” I break off a piece of scone, pop it into my mouth, and moan as its sweetness hits my tastebuds.
A furrow dips her brow. “We’renotnaming her Boudica.”
“It’s a perfect name. She was a warrior queen, just like my niece.” Winking, I motion to Hope’s belly. At her unconvinced facial expression, I let out an annoyed puff of breath. “I wouldn’t have to keep guessing if you’d just tell me the name.”
The agony of not knowing Hope’s baby’s name is killing me. Yes, the baby will be my niece, butshe’llalso be Hope’s baby. It’s like Christmas on a Saturday. Both are individually amazing, but together, they are perfection. For the lifetime of our friendship, Hope has never kept a secret from me. The night Rem kissed her, and they decided to date, the first thing she did was tell me.
“It’s killing me!” Head tossed back, I whine with the conviction of a bratty child melting down with a temper tantrum.
“We don’t know yet.” She laughs, spearing a piece of melon with her fork.
