Page 45 of Man Hands
26HormoneSpike
Brynn
My suitcase is packed,and my girlfriends are blowing up my phone with advice-ladentexts.
Ash: Don’t even get dressed. Just stay naked the wholeweekend.
Sadie: She has to get dressed for good restaurants! And food trucks. Eating in New York is like consuming literature—go high or low. Michelin stars or street food. Skip all the stuff in themiddle.
Ash: How is that likeliterature?What?
Sadie: Nabokov or 50Shades.
Ash: Ask Tom to get you tickets toHamilton!
Sadie: That’s sold out three years inadvance.
Ash: But he’s famous. Famous people can just snap their fingers and see Hamilton. It’s athing.
From time to time I glance at their stream-of-consciousness advice. But for once I’m not really listening. In the first place, there are a lot of places that needed waxing and shaving before my New York adventure. I plan to be as soft as an angelfoodcake.
Now I kind of want a slice of angel food cake,damnit.
I’ve painted my toenails an edible shade of peach, and styled my hair. I’m ready. And—this is the crazy thing—I’mexcited. Even if this trip is completely bogus, it’s really nice to be taking a vacation from my own life. I could be sitting here this week worrying about finding a job, hoping I’ll get some responses to my job query emails and posts on those electronic application sites. The new semester starts soon, so I’m basically running out of time for finding a jobthisyear.
Deep breaths. Deeeeeeeeeepbrrrrreaths.
There’s nothing I can do about those applications now. If I stay home, I’ll literally be pacing in circles and occasionally posting new recipes to my blog. But instead of pacing and waxing neurotic, I’m flying to New York with my fake fiancé to have our picture taken for the tabloids. It’sridiculous.
It’s ablast.
I’m making goodchoices.
Goodish.
Tom will pull up any moment to take me to theairport.
Just because it’s a fake engagement, doesn’t mean we can’t have some real sex. When Steve proposed, we didn’t have sex that night because he had a cramp in his toe. He needed more potassium, he said, and he ate a giant banana, but that sort of doused the mood. So I’m going to do this engagementright.
I put on some new lingerie that Ash and I shopped for. It’s basically made up of strings, but Ash assures me it’s very trendy. A girl can’t wear her granny panties to New York. I adjust my strings and slip on a wrap dress because Tom seems to like them. Or rather, he likes undoing them. It occurs to me that with the wrap dress and all these lingerie strings, I’ve turned myself into a big old present. Happy Birthday, Tom. I should jump out of a three-layercake.
Now I want three-layercake.
When I hear an engine outside, I slip on a pair of sandals and a little cardigan. I’m ready foradventure.
Tom’s Big Shiny Truck has pulled up at the curb, and I practically gallop toward the door and wrestle my bag outside. I give him thefinger.
Wait, that soundswrong.
I hold up an index finger in the universal sign for “Just a minute, fake fiancé, I’ll be with you as soon as I lockmydoor.”
But Tom doesn’t wait. He leaps out of his Big Shiny Truck and comes up thesidewalk.
“Sorry,” I say, fumbling with my keys. “We’re not late,though.”
“Of course not,” he rumbles, kissing my cheekbone. He looks at me and his fingers seem to move toward the tie at my side. He pats my body like he’s eager to unwrap melater.
That one move makes mequiver.
