Well Hung (11 page)

N
atalie points to my chin
. “Ketchup,” she says. I grab the napkin and wipe it off, then finish my story.

“Then, there was the time we took her copy of
Gone With the Wind
, cut out the last ten pages, and wrote
Rhett leaves. He’s a dick
.”

She smacks my thigh. “You were so cruel.”

I nod in agreement as I take a swig of my beer. We’re seated at the counter at The Best Burger Joint in the City on Lexington as we work our way through the jalapeño hot sauce burger bites. “We were the worst. Josie had been dying to read it. She went through a Scarlett O’Hara phase and dressed up as a southern belle for Halloween, complete with a parasol.”

“Oh, that’s adorable. I’ll have to ask if she still has pictures. But you and Nick were terrible. Cutting it up then spoiling the story.” She shakes her head in amusement as she digs into a mini burger drenched in chili peppers.

“My mom sometimes said she thought we were identical, not fraternal, twins since we both were possessed by evil prankster DNA. Anyway, Josie was devastated. She went to our mom and asked, ‘Is this true?’ My mom marched into our bedroom, thrust the book at both of us, and said we were required to use our allowances and purchase not only a new copy, but any other books Josie wanted that year.”

Natalie beams. “Excellent punishment. I guess Josie won that one after all.”

“She did. Ask her what funded her Jane Austen collection, and it was us being little assholes.” I take a bite of a burger. A Spoon song blasts overhead. As I finish chewing, I point upward. “Now this, this is music. Not that Katy Perry, Justin Bieber, Taylor Swift stuff you like.”

She bumps my shoulder. “Katy Perry rocks. Taylor Swift is awesome. And don’t even pretend I like the Biebs. I have standards, you musical snob.”

“Thank god,” I say under my breath, teasing her.

“But I still want to know—did Josie ever get back at you for spoiling the book?”

I nod. “Sure did. She exacted her revenge in other ways.”

Natalie lifts her beer bottle and tips it back. “Tell me, tell me, tell me.”

“She doused all our T-shirts in some girlie perfume one morning our freshman year of high school. There was nothing else to wear. We went to school like that.”

Natalie pumps a fist. “Excellent. I’ll congratulate her myself when I see her later. Leaving you and Nick smelling like princesses is the definition of sweet revenge.”

“I smelled quite pretty,” I say in a prissy voice, and that cracks her up. Then my tone darkens. “But I couldn’t stop pranking her. I was a total dick.”

She frowns. “No. Really?”

I nod, ‘fessing up to my misdeeds. “I replaced her shampoo with vegetable oil.”

Natalie’s eyes widen. “You were Satan.”

“The devil incarnate. I made fun of her the next day, too. Couldn’t let it go. Told her she smelled like a greasy salad, which is a simple but awful thing to say to a twelve-year-old girl.”

“Wyatt,” she chides, her blue eyes shaming me. “That’s terrible.”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “I know. Trust me, I know. She was so upset, but she tried hard not to let on,” I say, remembering how Josie’s lip quivered and she hid in her room, trying to figure out why her hair was such an oily mess. “I couldn’t even blame Nick because he was at a friend’s house. My mom pulled me aside that night.”

Natalie reaches for a fry on my plate and drags it through the hot sauce. She pops it into her mouth without flinching, and once again I’m impressed with her heat tolerance. “Were you in trouble?”

I sigh deeply, remembering the brilliance of my mother’s punishment. “In a way. I wasn’t grounded, but I got a talking to in front of a girl. I was fifteen and had my first real girlfriend, and she was over watching a movie with me. My mom came into the living room, turned off the TV, and explained what had happened, right in front of the girl I liked.”

Natalie’s jaw drops. “What did she say?”

“My girlfriend was pissed at me, and she agreed with my mom. My mom said how a boy treats his sister matters for many reasons, not the least because it’ll teach her what to expect from boys and men. She said, ‘Treat her with love, kindness, and respect, and set a good example for her. If you and Nick do that, she’ll keep growing up to be a strong, confident woman who won’t let a man walk all over her.’”

Natalie smiles softly. “I don’t have a brother, but I do think that’s true. I think we are all role models for each other.”

“We are, right? Maybe it’s the psych major in me, but I have a theory that we learn how we want to be treated and can expect to be treated not just from our parents, but our sisters and our brothers, too. It all matters. Everything we do matters.”

Her lips twitch in a grin. “You were a psych major?”

I laugh. “Weird, right?” I hold up my hands. “Did you think I majored in woodshop?”

She shakes her head. “No, but come to think of it, psych sort of fits you.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“You act like everything is so simple, but deep down you’re more insightful than you let on. Most of the time.” She winks. “Did your mom’s talking-to work right away?”

“It did. I needed to straighten up. Treat her better. Stop the jokes and needless put-downs. And my mom really put it in perspective. Saying all that in front of a girl I liked just emphasized her point. My goal from then on was to be a good guy, and show Josie how a dude could be, and what she deserved.”

“And look at her now,” says Natalie. “She’s strong, independent, and incredibly kind. She’s also no doormat, so it looks like you did have a lasting impact on her by changing your behavior.” Natalie wipes her hand on the napkin then rubs my shoulder as she talks. It occurs to me that this woman is tactile. She likes to touch. She likes to put her hands on me. She’s always done it, and she’s that way once again. I’m not entirely sure why this makes me happy, beyond the obvious—I really fucking enjoy her hands on me. But maybe also because it’s a sign that we’re back to normal. That the Vegas fallout is finished.

“That’s what a brother should do. Show his sister she deserves the world. Let her know she should expect the best,” I say, a burst of pride in my chest. “I might have been a wiseass, but because of the greasy salad hair, I worked harder to become a better guy. A good guy. She’s the reason it’s so damn important to me to be that kind of man.”

Natalie takes a deep breath. For a moment, her eyes seem wet, almost as if she’s holding back tears. She doesn’t shed any, though, so maybe it’s the spice. “Hot chili pepper?” I ask.

She nods and grabs a glass of ice water, gulping some down. But she doesn’t say anything more, so I keep the conversation going with a question. “Is it weird to hear this since you live with her?”

She shakes her head. “No. I think it’s wonderful.” She turns to me, her eyes meeting mine, the look in them genuine. “I love her, and I love knowing how much you care about her.”

Her voice does something to me. Warms me up. Squeezes my heart. “What about Charlotte? You’re super close now. Did you always get along?”

She makes a “so-so” gesture then answers. “Most of the time, but when we were younger we fought like any siblings. I’d want to wear one of her skirts. She wouldn’t want me to. That sort of thing.” Natalie lowers her voice to a whispered confession, “I pranked her, too.”

“You naughty girl.” I wiggle my fingers, a sign for her to spill the beans. “What’d you do?”

“She was crazy focused in school, so one morning I set her alarm clocks wrong. Boy, was she pissed. She nearly missed a test. She was not happy with me. But it didn’t matter, because I was so jealous of her.”

I tilt my head. “Why?”

“School came easily to her. She breezed through high school and got into Yale like it was the easiest thing in the world.” She turns away to fiddle with her beer bottle.

“And you? School wasn’t your thing?”

“I was more interested in the physical stuff. I spent so much time and energy on martial arts, you know? But it still made me batty because school mattered more to my parents, and that’s what she aced. I guess they were right, though. She runs a profitable business, and I’m just subbing in karate classes,” she says, brushing her hair off her shoulder.

“Hey,” I say, my voice soft. “You’re not just a substitute. You’re building yourself up. You’re growing your reputation. And I have complete faith your video series is going to be amazing. Speaking of, are you going to show them to me?”

“Let me finish the edit, then I can email them to you,” she suggests, a hopeful note in her voice. “If you really want to see them.”

“I do. I’d love to see them and help you in any way I can.”

Her eyes light up. “I’d really love some feedback.”

“Count on it. I’ll help you make them amazing. And hey, I also happen to think you’re amazing at WH Carpentry & Construction. You’re much more than an assistant, Nat. You manage the shop. You make it run.”

And now her smile spreads wide across her face. “Really?”

She sounds so damn happy at the compliment, and her reaction thrills me. “You’re awesome at what you do. You’re invaluable.”

“It’s fun. I sort of feel like every day is this puzzle, and I get to make all the pieces fit.”

“The WH jigsaw is better than being a phone sex manager?” I tease.

“
Much
better than furries and feet,” she says with a laugh. She turns more serious, placing her hand on my forearm. “I truly enjoy my job, Wyatt, so I don’t want you to think I’m looking to ditch this gig for karate teaching. I like making both work and martial arts fit in my life.”

I wipe a hand across my brow. “Whew. Because you know I’d be a mess without you.”

“I’m not planning on going anywhere. So long as you’ll have me,” she says. Then she seems to realize the double meaning and quickly corrects herself. “As long as you’re happy with my work.”

“I’m very happy with your work.” I pick up my beer when I realize she never finished her story. “You didn’t tell me what your punishment was for the alarm clocks.”

“I had to do her laundry and dishes for a week.”

I crack up. “Bet you never did that again.”

Natalie shrugs happily. “It wasn’t a punishment. I like laundry.”

“No one likes laundry.”

“I’m the exception, then. I like clean spaces. I like an organized home. I don’t mind the work getting it there.”

“You are quite the planner. I was impressed you brought condoms to Vegas.” I pick up another burger, but before I bite it, I realize what just came out of my mouth. “Um, can we pretend I didn’t say that?”

She laughs. “Listen, we don’t need to tiptoe around each other. We don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen, either. Let’s just be glad we’re moving on. We had our fun, we put it behind us, and we can still hang out like we did before, as coworkers.”

She takes a burger bite from the plate and holds it up in a toast and we knock . . . burgers. “I’ll toast to that for sure. As coworkers.”

We power through the plate, then order one more, quenching the fire with beer and returning to who we were. But that’s not entirely true. Because when I walk her home and stand under the green awning that leads into her building, reality slams into me once more.

Here’s the thing—even if you agree to return to the pre-sex days, even if you have an amazing time just being together, when you stand in front of her building, and all you can think about is why you can’t go upstairs with her and fuck her against the wall, then kiss her till she’s writhing and wriggling and begging you to stay the night and do it all again, you realize that putting the genie back in the bottle is damn near impossible.

“So this is it,” she says, and her voice is feathery.

I nod, shifting back and forth on the balls of my feet. “This is it.”

I swallow, and my throat is dry. Parched even. I lick my lips. She parts hers slightly, and I’m pretty damn sure neither one of us is buzzed this time. We hardly drank tonight, but even so, we seem to sway closer. Maybe there’s just an invisible pull between us, tugging us nearer to each other. We’re on her sidewalk, outside her apartment, and yet I’m only truly aware of her. How the breeze blows a few soft blond strands by her face. How she clasps her hands together, as if she’s trying to figure out what to do with them. How her breath ghosts over her lips.

Neither one of us makes a move.

Then, she hugs me. “I’m really glad we spent time together tonight,” she whispers, her mouth near my ear. A shiver moves through me.

“Me, too,” I say softly, but I don’t let go. It feels too good to have her in my arms. Instead, I hold her tighter. I breathe her in. I might even clasp her more closely, and she lets me. She snuggles into me, and right here, it feels like we’re damn ready to let that genie fly all the way free tonight.

A car honks. My cue to pull away. We say good-bye, and I tell myself tomorrow it’ll get easier to be near her.

But tomorrow morning, things get way more complicated.

I
dig
my thumbs and forefingers into the corners of my eyelids. If I can press hard enough, perhaps what the woman on the other end of the phone is telling me will change. But no matter how many times I ask if she’s sure, the three things she says remain the same: the Las Vegas courthouse has no record of our annulment. Easy Out Divorce never filed it. Easy Out Divorce closed up shop and took our money.

“But you should be sure to call the credit card company and get your $799 back,” the helpful lady suggests, as if it’s the money I care about.

“Great. I’ll need it for another annulment,” I say then slam the receiver down. Benefit of office phones? You can still get angry with them in a way you can’t with cells. Awesome.

When I turn around, Natalie is standing in the doorway. Her eyes are wide with worry. “What did you just say?” Each word is stilted.

“They never filed. We were scammed.” I sink into the dingy office chair, dragging a hand through my hair.

She grips the doorframe. “What do we do next?”

“I really don’t know,” I say, tension thick in my veins because everything had been going well again, and now it turns out what happened in Vegas didn’t fucking stay in Vegas. It followed us. This marriage is like an infection that won’t go away. Looks like my streak continues.

Her eyes swing toward the wall clock. “You better go, Wyatt. You don’t want to be late for the job. Let’s grab the cabinet doors and get you out of here. I’ll take care of this today. I promise. I’ll figure it out.”

“Okay,” I say with a sigh, and I’m glad she’s on top of the work schedule because I already forgot where I was headed this morning.

She helps me gather the wood materials I need, hands them to me, then grabs my tool belt from the chair where I left it last night. Her eyes register that my hands are full, and before I even know it, hers are around my hips and she’s buckling the tool belt in place.

“There,” she declares then walks me to the truck in the parking garage I use next to our office.

“Hector’s coming today to help you out. Just focus on work. Seriously, I’ve got this,” she says, wrapping her soft hand around my arm like the Frisky Mittens she is.
I blink away the thought.
Can’t think of her like that
.

She hands me something wrapped in brown paper.

“What’s this?”

“Just a way of saying thanks for last night. I made you a sandwich for your lunch. Extra sriracha. And an Oreo is in there, too. Your favorite,” she says, with a sweet little smile, a gesture that tells me she wants me to like this.

I do like it. “Thank you,” I say, and as I get into the truck and drive off, it hits me how wifely that whole exchange was. Fastening the tool belt. Seeing me to the vehicle. Handing me a lunch she made.

Just like she’s Mrs. Hammer.

And she is.

But as I click on the blinker to turn onto 10th Avenue, an idea lands in my head out of nowhere. She’s never made me a sandwich before. What if she spread arsenic in the sriracha? What if this is all her secret ploy as Mrs. Hammer to take over my business? She’s the one who tracked down the annulment company. What if she knew it was a bogus service? What if she’s tricking me so she can have everything of mine when I’m sleeping with the fishes thanks to this sandwich?

A cab slams its horn, blaring in my ears, and I slam on the brakes.

Holy shit. I nearly ran a red light. My pulse skitters out of control as I wait at the intersection.

Get it together, Hammer. No one is trying to kill you. You’re being paranoid. You need to chill out.

I take several deep breaths, clear my mind, and focus on driving. After I park and head to the client’s building, I toss the sandwich in the trash can on the corner.

Better safe than six feet under.

A few minutes later, from the fourth-floor window of today’s job, I spot a homeless dude rooting around in the trash can, grabbing it.

Great. Now his dirt nap will be on my hands.

* * *

* * *

A
t four o’clock
, I cross the sidewalk to my truck, loading the tools in the cab. A dude with a scraggly beard and a filthy jacket wanders past me. He stops, turns around, and gives me a thumbs-up. “Hey, man, don’t know why you threw out that sandwich this morning, but I’m glad you did. It was awesome.”

My face is blank for a few seconds, then it dawns on me. He survived the turkey ambush. Which means not only did I
not
become an accessory to murder, Natalie didn’t try to off me with a ciabatta.

Of course she didn’t, you idiot. You jumped to conclusions. You assumed the worst. You lumped her in with all the others. You should have known better.

When I return to the office, she’s placing the pages she just printed on her desk. I set down the tools, walk over to her, and park my hands on her shoulders.

She blinks, surprised I’m so close.

Chase’s advice resonates.

Do the opposite.