Frenched Series Bundle (65 page)

It was a relief to have something besides Charlie to think about. He was taking up far too much space in my brain.

She didn’t order wine.

“You’re pregnant.” Coco’s tone was adamant.

“What? No.” Mia flapped a hand toward us, shooing away the idea like a mosquito.

“Then why aren’t you drinking? Nothing short of human gestation would cause the Mia I know to turn down a glass of wine.” I’d offered to treat them since they’d helped me out today.

“I told you earlier. I didn’t feel right this morning, so I’m avoiding alcohol.” She crossed her legs and clasped her hands primly on her knee as if the matter was settled.

Coco and I exchanged a look. “We don’t believe you,” she said. “Have you taken a test?”

“No.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because I don’t need to. I’m not pregnant.” Her eyes slid over to the bar, where Lucas was chatting with customers who looked like they might be trying absinthe for the first time. We were sitting opposite the bar on an antique curvy-backed ivory sofa against the exposed brick wall. Lounge remixes of scratchy old jazz played softly in the background.

Coco gasped. “You think you might be pregnant but you don’t want Lucas to know!”

“Shhhhhhhh!” Mia flapped both hands at Coco, practically jumping off the couch.

“Oh my God.” I covered my mouth with my hands. “Is that it?”

Her eyes on Lucas, Mia nodded tearfully. “I just keep thinking if I don’t admit it’s a possibility, it might not be a reality.”

“Mia.” Coco rubbed her shoulder. “This is very unlike you. You should want to know! You do, I know you do. When’s your period supposed to come?”

“Right about now.” She lifted her shoulders. “I’ve always wanted kids, but…I don’t feel ready. And I don’t think Lucas is ready. We just got married! He’ll be furious with me.”

“Oh, Mia. Lucas loves you so much. He’d never blame you for this—I’m pretty sure we’re not talking Immaculate Conception here.” I reached over and patted her hand. “You should tell him.”
Now if it were Charlie on the other hand…
I could see being nervous telling a guy like that. He probably would be furious. Blame the girl. Or the condom.

Crap. Condoms broke. My pulse raced with panic for a moment. But I was on the pill too. Pill plus condom was good, right? I wondered what Mia was using for birth control.

She took a shaky breath and let it out. “I know. You’re right. And it felt awful to hide it from him. He probably suspects but he’s too scared to ask. I was a mess two mornings this week. Not throwing up, but pretty sick to my stomach.”

“Oh my God. You’re so pregnant.” Coco’s smile lit up her face. “Please go home and take a test tonight. It should be accurate at this point. I have to know. I have to.”

Mia allowed a wavering smile. “Let me talk to Lucas first. Then I will.”

“Do you know how it happened?” I asked casually—at least I hoped I sounded casual—as the waitress appeared with two glasses of wine and an ice water. I don’t even know if the base of my glass hit the table before I took it from her hand.

Mia waited until she left before answering. “Not really. I’m on the pill. I think I just got a little distracted and careless after the wedding. Not on purpose or anything,” she said, eyes wide, as if we’d been about to accuse her.

Coco put a hand on her leg. “Mia. You are the most careful person I know. Lucas is not going to think you did this on purpose. For what, to trap him? You’re already married.”

The word
trap
made me slug an extra ounce of pinot noir before setting my glass down. But Lucas and Charlie were not the same man
at all
. “I think you’re underestimating Lucas,” I said. “I bet his reaction will surprise you.”

“You’re probably right.” Mia picked up her water and took a long drink. “OK. Tomorrow. I’ll do it.”

“In the morning,” Coco specified. “I don’t even know how I’m going to sleep tonight, so you better get this done right away. I’ll expect a phone call before noon.”

“I’ll try. OK, let’s talk about something else before I start to freak out. Wedding update?”

Coco made a disgusted sound and picked up her wine. “No. I can’t even. I’m so mad I agreed to this shotgun wedding next month. Do you know I can’t even have flowers at the church?”

Mia gasped. “Why?”

“Because it’s fucking Advent!” she yelled. Then she looked skyward. “Sorry. I should be a better Catholic now.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “Because it’s fucking Advent,” she said, calmer.

I laughed. “Yes, that’s much better. God doesn’t hear the quiet swears.”

“I have to keep the whole thing toned down, the deacon said. Not that my taste was so flamboyant to begin with, but I was at least hoping for flowers.” She looked miserable. “I’ll probably have to wear rags and carry frankincense and myrrh. Ride there on a donkey.”

“It’s going to be beautiful no matter what.” I rubbed her arm. “How about candles? Candles are very Catholic and you can probably light a million of them in there. Tell them you want one for every saint.” For one insane second, which I will blame on the sudden and accelerated intake of wine, I entertained a quick fantasy of walking down a candle-lit aisle in a little chapel somewhere. But I was very,
very
careful not to look up at the altar to see who was there waiting for me. It wasn’t Charlie. It wasn’t.

“Oh my God.” Mia set her water glass down on the table with a thump, jolting me from my Dream Wedding to Not-Charlie. “I just realized, I might be pregnant at your wedding. I won’t be able to drink. And what if I’m fat? I already ordered my dress!”

“Mia.” Coco gave her a look. “Give me a break. My wedding’s in three weeks. You’ll only be like ten minutes pregnant, you won’t be showing yet. You probably won’t show for another six months. And who cares about drinking? You’re having a
baby
.” She reached over, grabbed Mia’s neck, and shook her back and forth.

“OK, OK.” Mia laughed. “And don’t worry, we can deck your house out in all kinds of winter flowers, candles, greenery, and white lights for the reception. I have a vision.”

“I know you do. And I’m counting on it because I can’t be objective here, and I need you. RSVP’s are piling up, and of course, everyone can come. I think we’re going to end up with about eighty people.”

“That’s a nice number,” I said. “Not tiny, but not unmanageable.”

Coco looked smug. “I agree. I got my way with the guest list—no five hundred Italian cousins with all their screaming children.”

“Good. Now you.” Mia nodded in my direction. “Do you feel better now that your new floor is in at the studio?”

“Definitely.”
But what really felt good was being pounded in the studio
before
the floor went in.
Should I tell them? What would they say? Part of me wanted to put it out there for a fun discussion, but I didn’t want them to think I had a thing for him. Because I so didn’t have a thing.

I set my glass down and bit my lip. “Actually, I have something to tell you guys.”

“You slept with that cop.”

I stared at Coco. “How did you know?”

She clapped her hands and Mia stared at me openmouthed. “Because you’ve got that freshly-fucked glow.”

“Do I?” I put a hand to my cheek.

“Wait, it’s true?” Mia leaned over Coco toward me. “You slept with Charlie Dwyer?”

“Yes.” I waited a beat. “Twice.”

Coco squealed and I could have shoved a grapefruit into Mia’s mouth, it was so wide.

“But it’s not like we’re dating or anything.” I picked up my wine again, but didn’t miss the look they exchanged.

“Why not?” Mia said.

“Because it’s not like that. I’m too busy for a boyfriend and he’s not interested in a relationship. We’re not really compatible anyway.” I hid my face in my big wine glass. Both of them stared at me in confusion.

“Erin, this is very unlike you,” Mia said. “And while I’m totally fine with just enjoying a fun sexual relationship for the hell of it as long as both parties are on the same page, this just…” She looked to Coco for help.

“Just doesn’t seem like a page in your kind of book,” Coco finished.

“Well, it is.” I jutted my chin. “I don’t have to be in love with someone to have sex with him. I’ve slept with guys who weren’t my boyfriend.”

My friends looked at each other and then back at me. “When have you ever slept with someone who wasn’t your boyfriend?” Mia asked.

Confession: I have never slept with anyone I wasn’t in love with already or didn’t fall in love with eventually. But people could change, right?

“My past isn’t the point, OK? And anyway, Charlie and I agreed we’re not going to have sex anymore. Although, we said that after the first time, and he still showed up at my house last night with tented pants.” I laughed, but they were bug-eye serious.

“Last night?” Mia blinked. “When was the first time?”

“The night before,” I said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Wednesday night.”

“You’ve done it two nights in a row?” Coco grinned. “So what time do you think he’ll be over tonight?”

“Coco! He’s not coming tonight. I told you, we agreed not to have sex anymore.”

“And why’s that, exactly? Wasn’t it good? It must have been, if he came back around sniffing for more so soon.”

I exhaled, feeling a shiver move down my spine and settle with a tickle between my legs. “It was good. It was
insanely
good. Sexually, we are very compatible. But that’s it.”

“How do you know?” Mia asked.

“Because I can barely stand him the rest of the time.” I grimaced, tilting my head side to side. “I guess I shouldn’t say that. He helped me out with the floor Wednesday night, and he can be funny and charming and sweet. But then he’ll say something insulting or cocky, and I realize I can’t take his bloated ego for another minute. I want to punch him.”

“Sometimes I want to punch Nick,” Coco offered, “if that makes you feel better.”

“Thanks, but Nick would never have said he shouldn’t sleep with you anymore because he’s worried you’ll fall in love with him.”

“Charlie said that?”

I shrugged. “Pretty much.”

“God. What an asshole. He doesn’t deserve to have sex with you, then.” Coco nodded with finality, then spoke out of the side of her mouth. “But I still think he’s going to show up tonight.”

“No, he’s not,” I insisted. “He wants to be friends. He’s insisting on taking me ice skating.”

“Ice skating!” Mia looked surprised. “You skate?”

“No, I’m horrible, as he will see. But that was our deal. He gets to take me skating—after which I’ve been promised there will be hot chocolate—and then I get to take him somewhere of my choice. I might torture him with some classical music.”

“Those are called dates, Erin. You’re dating each other.” Coco wore an amused expression.

“We’re
not
dating,” I said irritably.

“You know,” mused Mia. The votive candles on our table gleamed in her eyes. Or maybe that was mischief. “I’m beginning to think Coco might be right. If you’re serious about not having sex with him, better set that alarm tonight.”

#

After I got home that night, I took off my jeans, blouse, and heels, and purposely put on my ugliest sweats and granniest of panties. A hugely oversized, faded black sweatshirt so old it had pilled, with holes under both arms. It used to belong to my Dad and said Lakeshore Lanes on it, which I think was a bowling alley at some point in the last century. In a contest of frayed hems, my green flannel pants gave the sweatshirt a run for its money. The pants were so long I had to roll the stretched-out elastic waist band over twice, and the ends still flopped over my feet.

I took off my makeup, gathered my hair on the top of my head in a scraggly nest, and slathered my face with avocado masque. “There,” I said to my reflection. “You are about as unattractive as you can get. Now, if he shows up—which he won’t—it will look as though you were not expecting him—because you aren’t.” I frowned at a glob of avocado that had plopped off my face and into the sink. “And even if you are and he does, one look at you will neutralize his desire. You’re safe. Now let’s go downstairs for some ice cream and crystal meth.”

A few minutes later I was settled in front of the television with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s Cake Batter ice cream and the remote. The doors were locked, the alarm was set, and the shades were drawn. I’d just started the episode of Breaking Bad when I heard a knock at the back door.

I froze.

No way.

I paused Netflix and went to the front window, pushing aside the shades to peer out.

Charlie’s silver Honda was at the curb. At first, I felt a little jolt of elation, my heart echoing his sharp rapping on the glass.
He came!

But then I remembered what we’d decided.

Stop it. You have a plan in place, so just stay cool. Calm. Clothed.

Steeling myself with a few deep breaths, I headed for the kitchen.

I deactivated the alarm and opened the door only partway, as if seeing only half of him might lessen the desire budding inside me. “What?”

“Wow, look at you.” Over his shoulder he yelled, “Run, Toto! Run!”

“Very funny.” I gave him my best Margaret Hamilton face. “What are you doing here, Charlie? I thought we were just going to be friends.”

“I came to hang out, that’s what friends do. And I brought whiskey.” He held up a brown paper bag.

Oh crap, he brought whiskey. Try harder. Be meaner.
“Don’t you have any other girl friends?”

“Sure. One of them lives just a couple streets over.”

Jealousy stabbed me in the gut.
You asshole. I was kidding.
“Well, go take your whiskey over to her house.”

“I did. You think you’re my first stop tonight?”

I started to close the door but his hand shot out and blocked it.

“Come on, Erin, I’m just teasing you. Let me in.”

“No. I don’t trust you.”
And I really don’t trust myself.

“I promise to keep my hands off you.” He cleared his throat, looking me up and down. “Really, it might not be that hard.”

I glared at him but stepped back, allowing him to come in. Pushing the door shut, I leaned back against it and pointed at him. “I want it on record that letting you in tonight is against my better judgment.”

He nodded. “Noted.”

“And that I don’t think you’ll keep your word.”

“Now whose ego is staggering?”

Glad the avocado masque was hiding my blush, I glided past him, chin up. “Take off those wet boots and leave them by the door.
On
the rug. I don’t want wet footprints on the floor.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I ignored that. “Grab glasses from the cupboard next to the fridge. And get a spoon from the drawer in the island if you want some ice cream.”

He left his boots by the door and opened the cupboard. I couldn’t resist going over to the rug and straightening—his giant, heavy boots had pulled it askew. “Oh my God.”

“What?” I straightened and saw him pulling open all my kitchen cupboards, the contents of which were neatly stacked and lined up.

“There’s not one thing out of place. Even your spices are all organized in perfect little rows. And oh my God—are they alphabetized? They are!” He burst out laughing.

I shoved him aside and closed all the cupboard doors, leaving open only the one holding the glasses. “I like things neat, OK? I like to know where everything is. Your kitchen is probably one big mess.”

“You’d hate it,” he confirmed, taking two tumblers off a shelf. “None of my dishes match, my spice cupboard is all jacked up, and my dishwasher leaves spots.”

I shuddered dramatically, reaching up to close the cupboard door.

“Let me guess—it drives you crazy when someone leaves a cupboard door open.”

I said nothing and walked into the front room. (I don’t think I need to confess that he nailed that one.)

A minute later, he joined me in the front room, setting down two glasses of liquid amber before lowering himself onto the couch. “You’re cheating on me?” he asked, looking at the screen. “You can’t watch this without me.”

“What do you mean? You’ve already seen this series.”

“Yeah, I know, but once you start watching a series with someone, you can’t just keep going when they’re not there—it’s the rules!”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s absurd.”

“It’s not. Everyone knows this.”

Ignoring him, I reached for my whiskey and took a sip. “This is nice.”

“You mentioned that you like Irish whiskey that one day at Starbucks. This is my favorite one.”

I checked out the bottle. “Green Spot?”

“Yeah. You like it? I thought it would warm you up. I kept thinking about you being cold last night.”

“I do like it.” I sipped again. “And thank you for your concern. Whiskey is much better than turning up the heat. And it’s going to pair so nicely with my cake batter ice cream.” Moving a little closer to him, I set the tub between us. “Dig in.”

We drank and ate through an entire episode, and just drank through a second. At some point, I went upstairs and washed my face off, but only because Charlie complained that I got avocado in the ice cream. While I was up there, I wondered if I’d gone too far with the anti-attractive campaign. He hadn’t made one move, hadn’t cracked one dirty joke. I frowned at my reflection. Had I lost my appeal? On impulse, I dabbed a little concealer under my eyes and swiped some mascara on my pale lashes. Perfume would be overkill, but how about scented lotion? Under the sink I found some Kiss My Face lavender lotion and rubbed it into my hands and face. Then I pinched a little color into my cheeks and took down my hair.
There. Better.
I considered changing my clothes but thought that would be too obvious.

I wanted him to want me, but I didn’t want him to
know
that I wanted him to want me.

This was a tricky game.

When I came back downstairs, Charlie was about to pour more whiskey. “Whoa,” I said. “I don’t know if I should drink any more. I take it you don’t have to work tomorrow?”

“No, I’m off.” He looked at me. “You changed your hair.”

“Yeah. The bun was giving me a headache.” I flopped back onto the couch, arranging my legs just so, which would have been much more effective without the baggy sweatpants, but taking them off was probably a step too far. I heard the Wicked Witch’s cackly voice in my head:
These things have to be done delicately.
Yes. That would be my key word—delicately. I would delicately entice him with my delicate lavender scent. I would delicately parry his advances. And then perhaps I would indelicately bang him right here on the couch.

“Want to watch one more?” he asked.

I shrugged, fake-stifling a yawn, as if I didn’t care whether he stayed or went. “OK.”

As Charlie poured himself another couple fingers, I curled into the corner of the couch like I had last night and pulled the blanket off the back of it.

“You cold?”

“A little.”

“Here.” Charlie nestled into the other corner and opened one arm to me. “Come here.”

Feigning suspicion, I gave him an apprehensive look, and he rolled his eyes.

“Relax. I’m not going to feel you up, grandma. I’m just offering to cuddle.”

I sat up straight. “What? Mr. I Don’t Do Affection wants to cuddle? Stop the madness!”

He reached behind his back and threw a little beaded pillow at me. “Offer expired. You lose.”

“Oh, stop.” I hit play on the next episode and scooched over to him, curling up against his side like a cat, the blanket over my legs. Between the whiskey and our shared body heat, I was cozy warm in minutes.
Well done, Erin.

At first he kept his arm along the back of the couch, but eventually he let it fall onto my shoulders. “Nice move,” I whispered.

He pulled my hair in response.

As good as the show was, my mind started to wander. This felt really comfortable. Charlie was being so nice, too nice. And he smelled good—like Autumn Orgasm still but now there was something new in the mix. Cologne, I realized. He’d put on cologne. It was subtle, masculine, a little woodsy. Winter woods, the kind where you can still sort of smell the dead leaves even though they’re covered with snow, and someone has a fire in their fireplace nearby and maybe they put pine cones in it. I glanced at my fireplace, which had never been used, because I didn’t know how to build a fire.

“Hey Charlie,” I said, “do you know how to build a fire?”

He chuckled, and I felt it in his chest. “Yes. Charlie can make fire.”

I slapped his stomach. And left my hand there. “Maybe we can buy some wood and you can show me. We had a gas fireplace at my parents’ house. But I like the smell of wood burning.”

“Sure. But I’ll warn you—it’s dirty. There’s a lot of ashes involved.”

“Erin can clean fire.” I mimicked his caveman voice.

He poked me in the side, making me giggle, and we went back to watching television—well, I assume he did. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. How warm he was, how hard and muscular his body was, the perfect combination of angles and curves. I wondered what he would be like during real sex, the kind you have with someone you love, the kind that’s slow and tender and without pretense. Would it feel the same? Would he whisper sweet things along with dirty ones? Would he hold me afterward? Sucking my lips between my teeth, I glanced down at his crotch, praying to God he wouldn’t notice, although this didn’t really seem like the type of prayer God should spend time on.

His zipper area looked a little rumpled but I didn’t see any telltale bulge of an erection.
Maybe he wasn’t lying before and he really doesn’t find me attractive tonight. And what the hell are you doing anyway, imagining Charlie Dwyer making love to you? That will never happen.

But other kinds of things might happen.

I shifted my position, as if I was just stretching a little, and let my hand slip a little lower on his stomach.

“Nice move,” he whispered.

I pulled it away. Damn him!

But a moment later, he shifted his position too, lifting his hips a little and tugging on his jeans. Without moving a muscle, I let my eyes wander to his crotch again.

If I wasn’t mistaken, his pants looked a little tighter in the erection zone. I smiled, snuggling in a little closer. If he was getting hard, it was only a matter of time, right? Guys couldn’t just turn that off.

I forced myself to focus on Walter and Pinkman. But after a few minutes, I was so warm and comfortable that my eyes began to drift shut…

When I opened them, the room was dark, the TV was off, and I was stretched out on the couch, a blanket covering me from shoulders to toes. Groggy, I sat up, the events of the previous evening slowly filtering through a whiskey-flavored cloud of confusion. I sniffed and looked around.

No Charlie.

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I noticed a piece of paper on the coffee table. No, not a piece of paper—the brown paper bag Charlie had brought the whiskey in. Frowning, I picked it up and reached over to switch on the lamp next to the couch.

A note was scrawled on one side in black ink: Didn’t want to wake you. Thanks for the blowjob, I’ll send you the pics. PS. You snore.

I coughed once in indignation. “I didn’t give you any blowjob!” I huffed. “And I don’t snore!” Flopping back against the couch, I read the note again before tossing it aside, irritated beyond reason and then irritated further that I was irritated. It wasn’t the note, either. It was the fact that Charlie had come over here, tempted me with his whiskey and his cologne and his cuddling, and then kept his word not to touch me. How dare he! Granny panties notwithstanding, I’d been hoping he would find me irresistible in the end. What was wrong with me?

Stomping into the kitchen, I made sure the back door was locked and set the alarm before thumping with heavy heels upstairs to the bathroom, and brushing my teeth with enough force to wear off the enamel. I spit and scowled at myself in the mirror. “What the hell? You either want him or you don’t. Figure it out.”

In bed, I punched my body pillow a few times and stuck my face in it. It seemed like it should be that easy—did I want him or not? But it was more complicated than that. I did want him. Sexually, I wanted him six days to Sunday. Sixty-nine days to Sunday, in fact, and I wasn’t even a sixty-nine kind of girl.

Confession: I was, of course I was. I’d just never acted like it in real life.

But I’d do it with Charlie. In a heartbeat. And were there other numbers? I’d do those too.

Why was that? Why should I want to do things with him that I’d never done with my exes, for whom I’d had genuine feelings? (I sometimes thank God for this. Bad enough I gave a future priest a few blowjobs. Wonder how many Hail Marys he had to say for those.) Was it because I wasn’t afraid of what he thought of me? Because I wasn’t worried about being his—or
my
—idea of the perfect girl? Because I hadn’t seen his mother in twenty years?

Maybe it was. I turned onto my side and wrapped my arms and legs around the pillow. Maybe my attraction to Charlie made more sense than I’d realized. Maybe sex with him was more intense, more fun, more satisfying than anything I’d ever experienced precisely
because
we weren’t right for each other. I didn’t have to hold back because A) I wasn’t at all worried about having to make a commitment; B) I wasn’t concerned about sitting across from his mother at Christmas dinner knowing I’d been sitting on her son’s face the night before; and C) I didn’t mind that Charlie bossed me around during sex, made demands, and wouldn’t take no for an answer—in fact, I loved it, because he knew what I secretly wanted without even having to say anything. It was like magic! And if he was closed off emotionally, I didn’t have to care.

In other words, I wasn’t my mother. I didn’t have to worry about Charlie’s darker side because I wasn’t going to have any future with him. That was freeing, perhaps even freeing enough to allow me to fool around with him some more. We weren’t hurting anyone, right? We were two consenting adults. And as long as we understood one another, what was the harm? Good girls could have good sex with a good friend, couldn’t they?