Oh, God.
I can’t look at him. I can’t. If I do, he’ll know I’m thinking about it, and he won’t ever want to see me again for any reason. Then I’ll never get brave. I just have to forget it and box it into a separate part of my brain like guys do.
“One may be easier than the other,” Jack is saying, “but it all has to do with your mind, Lisa. With flipping that switch in your brain that turns off the fear. Whether it’s fear of bungee jumping or of asking someone to the prom, it’s all a matter of flipping the switch.”
“You're the expert, Braveheart.” Shrugging him off, I walk across the scarred linoleum, open the fridge, and scan the contents. “Can we just shut up now and eat? Or did you change your mind about the Southern Fried Chicken?” I take the platter out of the fridge.
“I haven't changed my mind about anything.”
“'Course not,” I say, slamming the fridge door. “That’d be too much like being wrong.”
Jack just laughs, heading toward the refrigerator as I move toward the counter. “I'm gonna grab a Coke, you freak. Want one?”
“Yes, please,” I mutter, biting into a drumstick.
* * * * *
Ten past midnight and I cannot get to sleep.
I keep replaying the day in my head. Mostly, I keep replaying the part after the sex.
AFTER THE SEX. I had
sex
with Jack. With Jack.
But I don't think about the sex. Or I try not to, anyway. Because he called me
average
just after. Average. So I cannot think about it much without all of my skin burning with humiliation.
I fast-forward to the part of my day when we arrived at my house and we talked and ate. Talked and ate. As if the sex never happened. Ever.
I know why
I
ignored the fact that we’d had sex.
I
was in shock after his calling me
average
. Seriously. My body and mind simply refused to acknowledge the possibly life-ending trauma. I’m just like that woman in the first chapter of
Jaws
who thinks she’s simply scraped her leg on some coral. Her body and mind will not let her process that a shark has just bitten off her leg. Until she reaches down to feel the scratch on her leg,
but her leg’s no longer there
. Every time I think about the sex and how Jack called me average, I feel like I’m reaching down to discover my leg is missing.
I pull the English Christmas comforter over my head. Today, Jack acted as if nothing happened between us because for him, nothing did. Okay, he came. Big deal. He probably gives himself more satisfying orgasms in the shower. Because I’m sure the hand of Jack Hawkins is anything but
average
.
How
could he have sex with me then call me average? Was I really the only one who felt such a rockin’ climax? I guess I was. Damn. This isn’t the first time I was the only one feeling anything. Take my entire relationship with Keith.
Maybe the sex this afternoon wasn’t so hot. Maybe I thought it was so good simply because I was jazzed by my bizarre bravado. I mean, I’ve had sex with boyfriends before, but until today, I’d never attacked a gorgeous guy on a barren stretch of field. I’ve never even had a one-night stand.
It must have really freaked him out, how disappointing I was. After it was over, he must have been telling himself “Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything. For God’s sake, don’t say anything about how boring she was.” But then that one thing he was trying so hard not to say just popped out.
I thought you didn’t want to be average anymore
.
I curl into a tight ball and suck on the corner of my comforter.
That was why he was fighting with me about such stupid stuff. My cursing and my money and everything. He was desperately trying to cover up his huge faux pas of telling me I was average right after we had sex.
Well, at least it didn’t change anything. The sex I mean. The deal is still on. It must be. Jack was Jack from the orgasm on. Still acting all superior and complaining about me. For him, the ill-advised romp was just some let down he’s already forgotten. I hope.
Oh yeah, Lisa Flyte
.
I knew her once
.
Lousy lay
.
I cringe but can’t compress myself into a tighter ball.
Oh, no! Charlie horse Charlie horse Charlie horse CHARLIE HORSE! “No, no, no, no!” I snap into a sitting position and rub my calf muscle hard, trying to forestall the intense pain.
But it doesn’t work.
“Oooooowww! Ow! Ow! Ow!” I collapse back onto the bed as the severe muscle cramp finally relaxes. Jack! Calling me average then giving me a Charlie horse.
Jesus. Why do I even care? So what if he thought I was average? He still had an orgasm, and it only took a few minutes, if that. Where does he get off being disappointed?
Why am I even thinking about Jack? He's so not even worth it. After all, what happened with Jack today hardly counts as sex at all. We didn’t exactly “have sex.” I mean, we didn’t touch enough to call it that. We fucked. Plain and simple. No relationship hassle, no wondering if I can trust anything he says, no wondering if he loves me, no wondering if he’s after my five million bucks. Just a quick wham-bam-thank you ma'am, and I can handle that. Over and done. Good. Fine. He’ll never be a guy I bring into my beautiful bed. For just so many reasons.
Number One: He doesn’t like me.
Number Two: He comes from money, which is like coming from a different planet as far as I’m concerned.
Number Three: He hates the fact that I got money from Burger Barn.
Number Four: He thinks he knows so much more than I do about people and how they work when really he’s just as clueless as the rest of us and it’s very annoying that he does not realize this.
Number Five: He’s probably a huge bed hog who flings his entire body across the mattress, barely leaving anyone else a corner.
Number Six: What if I started caring about him? His life is way too scary and I would worry all the time and get wrinkles.
Number Seven: Our last names are too ridiculous. Hawkins. Flyte. Hawk in Flight. No way.
Number Eight: He’s probably NOT a New York Giants fan.
Number Nine: Jack doesn't get me. At all. I want to do something important and something helpful.
I roll over in my big, beautiful bed. I punch my pillow. Nothing between Jack and me has changed. Nothing.
I get out of bed and open the door. By the time I re-cross the room and snuggle back under the covers, Pacquito and four cats have joined me.
“Come on.”
“Come on what?” I toss back, my pulse picking up. I tighten my grip on the receiver, hoping my voice sounds casual. Nonchalant, even.
“What do you say we do something for real. Go out to dinner with me.”
“That definitely wasn’t part of our deal,” I remind him, keeping my voice light and airy. But my heart is hammering right through my ribcage. I bite my lip to force myself to get under control. “I can’t do anything to jeopardize this.”
“Don’t tell me you're not interested.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I assure him. “But I’m more interested in saving HEYA, so I’m making a choice.”
“Well, when this deal finally goes through….”
“I’ll have you to thank,” I tell him.
When Crispin hangs up, I shove my hands into my hair, cradling my head. I didn’t mean that last comment to be flirty. I really didn’t. But I don’t entirely mind if he took it that way. Am I being a tease? Am I using my feminine wiles to save HEYA? I shake my hand-held head, trying to forget about Crispin Joyner and what he thinks I might do.
“What the hell?” Edgar barks.
By the time I look up, he’s closed himself into my office with me.
“Time is ticking away.” he harsh-whispers at me. “And you haven’t saved HEYA yet. Stop relaxing.”
“No, I—”
“Did you mess up the plan?” he demands.
I can’t stop the smile threatening to split me apart. “I got my first investor today!”
The harsh Alpha male line running down the middle of Edgar’s forehead falls away as he steps back. “Really?”
“Really!”
“Who?” he asks.
“Crispin Joyner,” I answer. “He owns Got Game. One store here and one in Lincoln—”
“I know who he is,” Edgar interrupts. Then he smiles. Edgar actually SMILES at me. “Score, Lisa!
Everybody
knows who he is. Ever since he was at USC. Did you invite him to the Spaghetti Supper?”
I cannot suppress the smug grin. In fact, I don’t even try. “I even got him to
advertise
it
in his stores!”
Edgar gives me a high five. “Man, Lisa! Do you know what this means?”
My buoyancy deflates into a weak smile.
“What’s the problem?”
“I’m pretty sure he thinks it means I’m going to sleep with him.”
“Are you?”
I consider. “Dunno.” I look up at Edgar. “I told him that after the deal goes through, I’d have him to thank. Do you think he expects me to show up at his house in a cheerleading outfit or something?”
Edgar shrugs. “Save HEYA, then put out if you have to.”
“Uh, really? I can just do that?”
Edgar laughs. Snickers, actually.
“It’s not funny,” I tell him.
“Lisa,” he explains, “people with money like other people with money. Get used to it.”
Edgar opens the door to my office, sees Jimmy down the corridor, and takes off in that direction. He tries to look all bad-ass and aloof at the same time. And pulls it off.
What does he mean,
people with money like other people with money
? Crispin Joyner likes me because I’m so sassy and quirky and savvy in emails and over the phone. And Jack has money but he doesn’t like me at all. He thinks I’m
average
.
* * * * *
My alarm rings, so I push the snooze again. Another night of not getting to sleep until four because my mind would not stop replaying how
average
I am. Damn, I need more sleep. I can’t move anything but my snooze-button arm. I really can’t. I have four cats and two dogs on me. Plus it’s really early.
Duh nuh nuh nuh
.
The doorbell! I look at the clock. Past seven? How did that happen? I only pushed the snooze button…oh, hell.
Bolting up, I yank myself into the jammies tossed to the bottom of the bed. Then I careen toward the front door. “Sorry!” I’m yelling as I swing it open through the dogs.
But Mia just stands there laughing. “It’s okay,” she says, coming in and noticing me in my pjs. “You overslept. Big deal.”
“But it’s so inconsiderate,” I counter. “You got up early on a weekend.”
“Yeah, but it’s easy for me. I’m a lot younger.”
* * * * *
Twenty minutes later, we stand in the living room. All the cats are in the garage with my furniture, except for Wash, who I couldn't find. He better have the sense to say hidden.
Mia surveys the scene: bare house, plastic on the floor. “Perfect,” she says. “I always thought your house was kind of crappy, and I guess it is, but it makes it a lot easier to paint with no trim or molding or anything.”
“What was left of it I pried off before the guys came this week to install the new windows. Anyway,” I chide, “you’re my decorator, so it better not be crappy when we’re done.”
She turns to look at me, her eyes gleaming. “It’s going to look so fantastic with the fake wood trim we got.”
“It’s not fake. It’s maple…or something that grew.”
“But it wasn’t built into the house,” she argues. “I know it’s real wood, but we’re adding it on.”
“So? Do you think the old molding was born here? Someone had to add it on at some point.”
Mia crinkles her forehead. “Hm. I never thought about it like that. I guess you’re right.” She sweeps her gaze across the room. “Yeah, it’s going to be beautiful.”
“Better be.”
“Well,” she says, turning to me, all bright and eager, “let’s get started.”
“Wait.”
“Why?” she asks, flicking at the wheel of a paint roller.
I whip a dust cloth off my little black CD player. “Ta-da! We’ve got tunes.”
“Nooo,” Mia groans. “You’re going to make me listen to eighties music.”
“And seventies and nineties and even some current stuff,” I assure her, pushing PLAY.
As the opening drumming of “Burning Down the House” throbs through the floorboards, Mia can’t help but get her groove on. Neither can I.
* * * * *
Two CDs later, Mia and I brush the finishing strokes of sage green onto the living room walls as we bop our butts to Bonnie Raitt. Caterwauling to the heavens, Mia turns to me to harmonize, I’m pretty sure. "
A little mystery to figure out
….” Suddenly, her eyes grow huge. “Aaaah!”
Something brushes my shoulder. “Aaaaah!”
“Lisa!”
I spin around. The sight of Jack right there makes me jump and scream again. He reaches out as if to put a hand on me to calm me down.
“Whaa-!” Jack jumps back as Mia attacks him with her roller.
“Mia!” I laugh. “Mia, it’s okay!” I stumble to the CD player and click it off. “Jack,” I pant, “This is Mia. Mia, this is Jack.”
Mia, who holds Jack at bay with her goopy paint roller, turns to me. “
This
is Jack?” She looks back at him, then back at me. “The old guy from your MBA class?”
“I never said he was old,” I deny. But really, I might have given her that impression. I mean, I didn’t want her to think I had a crush on the guy.
“Man.” Jack looks down at the gobs of green paint slashed across his T-shirt and arms.
“Serves you right for not knocking.” I walk over to my Dasani and take a swig.
“I
did
knock,” he says. “And I called your cell. Three times.”
I crinkle my eyebrows. “Why?”
Jack goes into the kitchen and comes back with his own Dasani. “We’re working on a project together. Do you want to fail?”
“Fail
what
?” I bark back.
Jack just looks at me.
Oh. I get it. He’s slipping right into our cover story. Wow. He doesn’t even sound like he’s lying. “
I
never fail anything,” I toss back at him. “Anyway, I’m busy today. Mia and I are painting the house.”
Jack looks around the room, frowning at all the passionate daubs of green. “Hm.”
“Shut up,” I say.
“Yeah,” Mia says. “It’s going to look
awesome
.”
We both turn to look at her. She sounds so… right.
“Cool,” Jack says. “Will it take all day? Can we test some theories later on?”
Theories. Hmm. I look at him. He’s looking at me.
Sex sex sex, that’s all I think.
I wonder suddenly if he realizes this. Oh, God. I feel a hot blush surge into my cheeks, so I drop my brush on the plastic-covered floor so I can bend down to pick it up.
“Damn.” The brush landed on my shoe.
“Do you have time later?” Jack asks again.
“No,” I say. “Mia and I are going to whip this house into shape today.”
Jack nods. “Okay.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Since I'm here,” he looks down at his smeared shirt, “and dressed for painting, can I help?”
I look at Mia. We're having a barrel full of girl-fun, but we're not idiots.
“Big bedroom?” she suggests, shrugging.
“Big bedroom,” I say to Jack. “Paint, rollers, and brushes are already in there. Hunter green.”
“Will do,” he says, and heads down the hall. “By the way,” he calls back, “I like the Ramones.”
“What are ‘Ramones?’” Mia asks.
I sift through my CD’s and choose one. “The best band ever.”
“Ah.” Mia sounds smug, like one who finally gets the joke and isn’t impressed.
“What?” I ask.
“Jack,” she says, looking like the cat that ate the parrot. “The
old
guy from your class.”
“What about him?”
She looks toward the hall, then back at me, giving me a knowing smile. “He knew exactly which room was the big bedroom.”
* * * * *
I try to sit up, but I’m too exhausted. I just keep staring at the living room ceiling, wondering what I‘ve been wondering all day.
Why is Jack here
? Does he think we’re having an affair? Are we? I have no idea. Sure, he thinks I’m average, but some guys’ll have sex anything, I guess. But it’s one matter to stop by hoping for a quick bonk, and entirely another to spend the day painting. Who on
earth
would want to have sex
that
badly? And let’s face it, Jack Hawkins could have sex with just about anybody he wanted. So, why is he here? Is my house so pathetic that he felt he just
had
to help? Does he feel
responsible
for me?
“Well,” Mia says, “I’m outta here.”
“Where ya goin’?” I ask, rousing myself to pay attention.
“Dinner with the folks,” she yawns.
“Dinner?” I squawk, sitting up. “We just polished off two pizzas!”
“You and Jack ate most of ‘em,” she points out.
“Did not,” Jack mutters, from across the room where he’s stretched out on the floor.
I get up and walk her to the front door.
Jack gets up and follows us. “Nice meeting you,” he tells Mia.
“Right back atcha. See ya both.” She turns and jogs down the steps.
Jack and I stand in my doorway and watch her cross the street. The night air smells like rain, feels like fall back home.
“I’m going, too,” Jack says, sliding across the threshold. He stands facing me in the dim glow of the front porch light. “Can you test tomorrow?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Be at my house at seven.”
Wait. Jack’s leaving? Without telling me what he was doing here all day?
When he gets to the bottom of the steps, he turns back to look at me. “Wear a bathing suit,” he says. “And a T-shirt,” he adds. “The tighter the better.”
“Why?”
He stands with one foot on the bottom step, one hand on the porch railing. “We’re going hiking, with waterfalls. Canyoneering. I’ve designed a special wetsuit for it. The T-shirt is for when you get hot hiking and want to peel off the top of the suit. The bathing suit is just basically underwear, to help prevent chafing or whatever.”
“But…”
“Don’t worry. Getting cold isn’t really a concern like it is in the ocean. You’ll dry off quickly with all the hiking. See you tomorrow.”
Chafing? Did he actually say
chafing
? On my bikini parts? I’m still trying to process this when I hear his truck door shut. I look up and he’s already pulling away from the curb.
Chafing? We are clearly not having an affair.
* * * * *
“Lisa! Are you even listening to me?”
Swaapft
!
“Jack.” I swat away the branch he let zing back into my face. “I know what I’m doing. If I didn’t, why did you ever let me off that stupid practice rock in the first place?”
“This last waterfall is different. The highest one you’ve jumped down so far was only about twenty feet.”
Only
? “What about the one I had to slide down?” I counter. “That rock chute or whatever was way longer than twenty feet.”
“True,” Jack says, “but not much higher. And you weren’t on the rope.”
“But you’ll make sure I don’t fall with that bagel thing, right? So what do I have to worry about?” I push past him and head up the trail like I have better things to do.
“Lisa—” Jack runs ahead of me and turns to face me. “I just want you to be ready, that’s all. And it’s a belay, not a bagel, dumbass.” This time he’s the one who pushes ahead, leaving me in his wake.
As I watch him stalk off, my eyes gravitate to his butt.
“Hey!” I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before. “Your butt’s not padded! You’re not even wearing a wetsuit. You get running pants!”
Jack doesn’t even turn around. “My butt’s not padded because I’m not a beginner and I don’t need padding on my butt.”
“What? Your butt’s, like, invincible?”
He ignores me. “And I’m not wearing a wetsuit because I hardly ever wear a wetsuit canyoneering. I don’t mind getting wet or hiking while my pants dry. Most beginners don’t want their clothes to get wet, no matter how quickly the wicking dries.”
“Why can’t I wear wicking?” Notice how I say this as if I know what ‘wicking’ is.
“I just told you,” Jack says. “You’re testing
beginner
gear.”
“No
beginner
is going to want a padded butt, I can tell you that right now. You told me corporate retreats go canyoneering. Well, there’s no way Judy in accounting is going to want Harold in sales to see her with a form-fitting padded butt.”
Jack stops and turns to face me. “I’ll keep that in mind. How does your butt feel?”
“How does my butt feel?” I echo.
“Lisa, does it
hurt
? Any bruises or scrapes?”