Page 4 of Man Cuffed
“I grew up with three brothers!” she protests. “Boys can be so gross and sweaty.”
Because I’m me, the image of a sweaty man isn’t enough to scare me off. A strong, sweaty man—preferably one who’s just helped me set up my new futon bed—sounds pretty good right now.
But I’m not sure Cassidy and I can agree on this point. She and I don’t have the same taste. Or the same personality. Or the same goals. I’m thirty. She’s still in her mid-twenties. I’m a drama queen; she’s analytical and practical and, fine, kind of a nerd.
When I met her at a party for her brother Liam—who is now my brother-in-law—we hit it off immediately. And we have one big thing in common. We’re both at a crossroads in our lives. She’s just home from a fellowship abroad that didn’t go as she planned. And I’m trying to decide whether or not to give up acting.
Actually, we have more in common than that. We both have pushy families with deep opinions about what we ought to be doing with our lives. Hers are a pair of slick lawyers. Mine are actual rocket scientists. No joke—my dad works for one of the new private launch companies who are changing the shape of space exploration. My mom teaches astrophysics at a college in Oregon.
They worry about me. And so does my only sister.
For example, my sister, Sadie, is worried that this new apartment costs too much. “You could find new roommates again and save a wad of cash,” she said only yesterday.
But Cassidy understands, which is why she’s the one pulling my graphic novels out of the box and placing them carefully on the shelves. I know it’s a risk to spend money on this place. But thirty-year-olds don’t have roommates. I’m tired of living like a starving artist.
Although I am a starving artist.
And Cassidy is right about my new apartment. Itisclean, and was recently constructed. The walls are painted white. The floorboards are pickled to a nearly white color. The countertops are a shade of dove gray chosen to never offend anyone. They are practically invisible.
In other words, I’m moving into an apartment with all the warmth and character of a recently built mental institution. But, hey. At least it’smymental institution.
And anyway, I’ll liven up the place soon. Paint isn’t very expensive. Groovy lamps will be sourced from secondhand shops. Fabric. Beads. I have ways of brightening up an interior that don’t cost much. Plus, my sister gave me a cast-off couch—the one she had in her guest room, which is now the baby’s room.
I’ve already chosen fabric for the slipcover I’m making in bright orange. That ought to brighten things up. And then I’ll need pillows, though. Throw pillows make all the difference, and great fabrics aren’t cheap.
Space isn’t an issue for me, luckily. This will do. There’s a tiny living room, separated from the kitchen area only by a countertop that serves as a preparation space and my only table.
But there’s a bright bedroom and a (very clean!) bathroom that I don’t have to share with anyone. The not-sharing part is key. That’s why I moved here. To live like an adult.
“You should see some of the dumps I rented in Atlanta and LA,” I tell Cassidy. “I’m ready for something clean and quiet, even if it is a little out of my budget.”
“I totally understand,” she says, giving me a smile. “And this is a very safe neighborhood.”
“Again, something we wouldn’t look for in a man.”
“Safe? Why the heck not?”
“Oh, honey.” I just shake my head. “Safe turns into boring, usually by the third date. If you don’t feel a little whiff of danger, what’s the point?”
“Hmm.” She gives me a squinty, slightly confused look. “I’m not sure it all adds up.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have a pact,” she says in a grave voice. “We’re both going to find good, decent men.”
“I didn’t forget.” This is the other thing we have in common—a pressing need for better male company. We’re both coming off of romantic disasters. So last night—over a pitcher of margaritas—we made a deal to only date decent men.
“But youjustsaid you need a man to have a whiff of danger!”
“Awhiff,” I emphasize. “Not a stench. It’s different. There are some very decent bad boys in the world. Good men who like to have a fun time. There have to be.”
Cassidy does not look convinced. “How can a man be both good and bad at the same time?”
“Oh, honey. There’s this thing called sex...”
She throws a wad of packing tape at me. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child. Everyone does that.”
“Sorry,” I say quickly. Cassidy is some kind of statistics genius. But she’s also sheltered, and a little sensitive about it. “I was just making a dumb joke. But our needs arenotfunny. There have to be men in the world with good hearts and dirty minds. There just have to be.”
