Page 42 of Man Hands
Goddamn it. I can’t stop thinking about him. Even here, surrounded by food and my friends, my brain (and my loins) just keep thinking about him. The way he kisses. Smells. His throaty laugh. How we made love last night and then snuggled andthenI…
Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. We did not make love. We screwed. Banged.Whatever.
This is bad. My subconscious is yearning for all those relationship perks. Maybe the fake engagement is the right move. It can feel like a relationship, but without any of the hazards. Such as a brokenheart.
“Maybe everyone should try a fake relationship at some point or other,” Ireason.
Ash gives me a look that doubts my sanity. “Tell me again why this is agoodidea?”
“No one wants to see an engaged couple screwing. It’s like watching your parents make out. So if we’re engaged, then that porn scene is legitimate instead of trashy. We’ll be fake-engaged until this whole thing blows over, okay? It’s not nearly as cuckoo as it sounds! Iswear!”
My credibility is tarnished, though, by a tear that leaks from the corner of one eye. Damnedhormones.
“So you’re fake-engaged,” Ashrepeats.
“I will be. I think so.” I doth protesttoomuch.
“And you don’t want a relationship?” she asks, pinning me with her laser stare, the same one that causes couples to buy homes above their pricerange.
I nodcarefully.
“Wow,” says Sadie. “And this is good, right? Because you don’t have any feelings for him, and it’s totally okay with you to pretend a relationship so you’re not actually invested in anything. And this will fixeverything?”
I’m processing what she’s saying, and my head is nodding. I’m pretty sure Ash laughs. Yep. She is laughing, because Sadie is laughing too, and then I’m laughing, because of peer pressure or something. “I just got divorced!” I say. “And now I’mengaged!”
We are howling. It’s not really funny, so I’m not sure what is wrong with us. Hive mind orsomething.
After a minute or so, we all quiet down. I actually think I’mhyperventilating.
Ash says, “You’re so screwed,” and then I start crying. Real tears. Not crocodile ones. Sadie reaches for my hand and she starts crying. The babies start crying. The old woman in the corner eating a breakfast burrito starts crying. Even the server with the mohawk starts crying. Ash just looks at us, utters, “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” and asks forthebill.
25OhHoney
Tom
The only goodthing I can say about the jewelry store is that it’s not in a mall. I hate malls, with their recycled air and the smell of butteredpretzels.
And now I want a buttered pretzel, damn it. Ring shopping makes me want tostresseat.
“What are you muttering about?” Braht asks he parks his car in front oftheshop.
“I hateshopping.”
“You’ve mentioned that a dozen times in the past ten minutes. Stop whining. Get your big hairy butt in there and buy a ring, so wecangolf.”
“Ihategolf.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t beat me sooften.”
Itistrue, but beating Braht isn’t all that tricky. And yet I’m nice enough not to sayso.Much.
Braht bleeps the locks on his shiny blingmobile and I trudge toward the nicest jewelry store in West Michigan. I wouldn’t want my fake fiancée to have anything less thanthebest.
As I walk in, I am nearly blinded by the flashing brilliance of hundreds of diamonds displayed under halogen lighting. Ow. My eyes hurt. But let’s face it—that sting I’m feeling is really my ego. This is the same fucking store where I bought Chandra’s ring sixmonthsago.
It’s déjà vu all over again as I cross the rose-colored (ugh! pink carpeting!) floor toward the counter in back, where they keep the luxury gemstones. And because my life is a bad dream on repeat, the same salesman is waiting. I remember that pink tie, chosen to match thedecor.
And his nametag, which readsMaynard.
