HAPPY HOUR
“Hot guy checking you out at your three o’clock,” Laura says, nudging me to turn and acknowledge the guy I’ve noticed eyeing me since we walked in.
I glance at the man in question. He smiles at me and nods his head slightly in my direction.
He’s not ugly. Quite the contrary. He’s a seriously good-looking guy. Thick, sandy-blond hair. Clean-shaven. Mysterious dark eyes. Even a nice smile. It’s just…I’m not ready for the dating world.
I sigh heavily and shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m just not ready,” I tell her.
“Penn, you’ve been divorced for a year.”
“Correction. It’s only been five months and one week since the divorce was finalized.”
It’s been eleven months since I walked in on my husband screwing his secretary. How embarrassingly cliché, right? And then shortly thereafter, I learned about the barista he was also screwing. And the text relationship he had with a ‘friend’ of his from college—a girl, turns out, he was involved with back then, even though he said he was faithful to me all four years he was away. And when I asked for a divorce, he didn’t even blink. Just an ‘Okay’ and the following weekend he moved out into a furnished apartment. A five months later, everything was settled. He didn’t argue a single request of mine. Gave me the house and everything inside of it. Gave me a generous alimony. I think the only thing that had the divorce take so long was his attorney trying to drag things out for more time on the clock.
No matter how much time has passed, the hurt feels fresh every time I think about it. Peter and I had grown up together. Gone to kindergarten together, elementary school, middle school, and high school. Because both of our last names started with a P, mine being Pierce, his Pembrooke, we were often seated right next to each other. On top of that, everyone got a kick out of the fact both our names were alliterative: Peter Pembrooke and Penelope Pierce. It seemed fated that we would get together. In our sophomore year of high school, we started dating. He was my first real boyfriend.
We went to different colleges—him in the northeast, and I stayed back in Iowa and went to State—but we saw each other at every chance we got. After college, he got a job in Connecticut and begged me to move out here with him. With my double major in Interior Design and American History, I felt like this area would be well suited for work in what I really wanted to do: historical restorations. With Connecticut being one of the first states in the country formed more than three hundred years ago, I was hopeful that there would be plenty of opportunities. So I happily packed up and moved. Within a year, I’d gotten a job as an assistant to a respected historical designer, Peter proposed, and we bought a house just before we said, ‘I do.’
I did everything for him: cooking, cleaning, running his suits to the cleaners and picking them up. I managed the household bills and the house he let me choose. And decorate. Okay, the decorating I love and wouldn’t trust anyone to do for me. Besides, it’s more or less my job now with my own interior design company, Penelope Pierce Designs—generously helped out by my former employer who has since retired. I organized our vacations. I shopped for all the holiday and birthday gifts for Peter’s large family.
But apparently, all I did for him wasn’t enough. He cheated on me. He even cheated on those girls. I try and console myself that no one would ever be enough for Peter, but I can’t help feeling if I’d done just a bit more for him, that I would have been more important to him and he wouldn’t have strayed.
Or if I’d been sexier. I mean, that was what he needed the other girls for, right? Sex. I wasn’t good enough in bed, I guess. But I was me. He never complained. Never asked me to be different. And I wouldn’t know where to begin if he’d asked me to change. I didn’t even know if I had ‘it’ in me to be sexier. Not like Laura, for sure. She exudes sexuality from her choice of clothing to the way she talks. Even the way she sips her martini has sex appeal. But that’s Laura. Not me. I’m perfectly happy with my cashmere sweaters and skirts that come down below my knees.
“Whatever. Even half a year without sex might as well be five.” Ever the drama queen, Laura punctuates her proclamation by knocking back the rest of her pale pink cosmo.
I don’t bother correcting her that it’s been longer than six months since I’ve had sex.
“Sorry I’m late,” Shannon says, sliding into a chair at our table. She looks exceptionally happy, her smile bigger than usual, and her huge doe eyes more sparkly than ever.
“No worries, babe,” Laura says, flagging down our server as she’s passing our table.
“Hey, hon,” the waitress greets. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a Jack and Ginger, without the Jack.”
The waitress wrinkles her brow at Shannon. “So…you’d like a ginger ale?”
Shannon nods at the waitress, then turns to Laura and me to find us staring at her as if she’s grown a second head.
She clears her throat and presses her lips together, fighting a grin. “Well, Nate and I are—”
Shannon doesn’t even have to finish her sentence for me to put it all together.
“Oh my God! Congratulations!” I squeal and jump out of my chair, squeezing Shannon in a hug. “How far along are you? Is that why you were ‘sick’ last week?”
“Nine weeks. Confirmed just half an hour ago.” She pulls a piece of paper from her purse—an ultrasound photo. Resting a hand on her still-flat belly, she continues, “And yeah. Last week. This little peanut is already giving me some serious morning, afternoon, and even evening sickness.”
I take my seat again and stuff down the pangs of jealousy as I study the grainy photo of a peanut shaped ‘baby.’ I’ve wanted a baby so badly. I’d even take the morning, afternoon, and evening sickness. Peter always promised that we’d get to be parents…one day, but something was always more important, and he always assured me that ‘in a few months things would be better.’ Although now, single, I’m a little grateful Peter and I never ventured down the path to parenthood.
After talking about Shannon and her husband’s excitement and discussing the baby’s due date and Shannon’s tummy woes, and another round of drinks for me and Laura, Shannon asks me, “So, what were we discussing before I rudely interrupted?”
“We were discussing the cobwebs in Penelope’s pussy,” Laura says without ceremony.
“Classy,” I mutter and shake my head. I turn to Shannon and catch her sympathetic look. “Not you, too.”
“I mean, you don’t need a man, but…”
This was not an unfamiliar discussion these past few months with Laura and Shannon. Both were excited by my divorce from Peter. Seems neither had really liked him. Of course, now, I realized they saw something untrustworthy in him that I was blind to. Having known him all my life, growing up in the same town, going to the same schools…I always just trusted him. We had a deep and emotional connection no one could touch. Or so I thought.
“I don’t know,” I answer, shaking my head. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to date. I mean the dating world is so overwhelming and scary.” I know I sound like a Wendy Whiner, but it’s true. The dating world is scary. I’d already chosen a cheating loser; what other horrible choices could I make? Another cheater? Someone with a gambling problem? Someone with a disease? Or worse. How many times have I watched the news about a missing woman, and it’s later discovered that it was the guy she was dating, or married to.
Besides. While I know what went wrong in my marriage—my lack of sexuality—I could never discuss this with even my closest friends. They don’t need to know about my sex life—or lack of one.
“I like my life right now. Why should I want it to change?” I tell Shannon and Laura in my most convincing tone, then add, “Besides, I have enough man problems right now anyway.”
“Oh?” Laura asks, eyes wide and ready for me to spill the tea.
“That obnoxious veterinarian again,” I tell them.
Three months ago, the offices next to mine were leased by a one-doctor veterinary practice. The prior business had been a sporting-equipment operation focusing more on tennis and golf but the owners, Gerry and Gwen, wanted to expand things, so they found a larger space and let their lease go. I’d hoped for another quiet business. When I’d learned it was going to become a veterinary office, I wasn’t opposed to it. I mean, cats and dogs and whatever else. Cute, right? Wrong. What I hadn’t anticipated was how thin the walls were, or how the HVAC system was set up. All day long, I hear barking and meowing. Birds squawking. Once, there was even a pig. And because of that HVAC system, sometimes the most nauseating smells would find their way into my space. From pet odors to medicinal and surgical smells.
And also, between the back doors of our offices—the doors that lead to the parking lot instead of the sidewalk and street out front—was a small patch of grass. As soon as his business started operating, I’d find piles of excrement left behind by his canine patients. I’d talked to the doctor about it a couple of times, and he said he’d do what he could, but I got the feeling he thought I was being overly dramatic.
“I think you mean the hot veterinarian,” Laura says and bites her lip. “The way he fills out his scrubs. Shouldn’t be allowed,” she says with a grunt biting down on her lower lip. “Do you think he likes it doggie style?” she asks with that snort-laugh of hers.
She wasn’t wrong. Dr. Rollinson was attractive. But a total arrogant blockhead. Which basically outweighs any of the other attractive qualities he may possess. Way too often, I’d see him running his hands over his perfectly coiffed hair—the way the ‘greasers’ in the movie Grease did—in window reflections or the mirrors in his car. God only knows how long it takes and how much product he uses to get his hair swept up into that modern pompadour style.
And his car. Okay, it’s a sexy, red Tesla coupe, but he treats the car like some kind of mid-life-crisis prized possession. I saw him grab a rag from the trunk to polish up a spot here or there. God forbid it snow or rain on his car. Those days, where bad weather was already falling or predicted, he drives, what I assume is, his “junker,” a Jeep Rubicon. And he always parks in a way that would preclude someone from parking in the spot next to his no matter which car he drove that day.
“Anyway, another one of his patients left a pile of number two on that patch of grass between our doors today.”
“Number two,” Laura says, shaking her red curls exasperatedly. “It’s called dog shit, Penn. Say it with me. Dog. Shit.”
“I don’t. Swear,” I tell her, which just makes both of my friends laugh.
“And that’s one of the many things we love about you, sweetie,” Shannon says. “But I gotta agree with Laura. He’s a fucking hot doc!”
“Whatever,” I say, shaking them off. He’s a jerk. Good-looking or not. “Anyway, my business is thriving. I don’t have to answer to anyone except my clients. I am really not interested in ever getting married again.”
“Penelope. No one is saying you should get married, least of all me,” Laura says, shivering with disgust at the mere idea. “But you’re only twenty-seven. Way too young to start hoarding cats and becoming a spinster. Just, you should have fun. Go out with some guys. Get some nice dinners. Order the lobster. Go see some Broadway shows. And scratch that itch with something other than your own hand or your B.O.B.” BOB? What is she talking about? “A battery operated boyfriend?” Laura spells out.
My mouth forms a small O, and my cheeks burn. I can’t believe that she’s having such a private discussion here in a fairly crowded bar. Well, it is Laura we’re talking about, so, yes I can.
“Don’t you have a vibrator?” she asks, seemingly shocked, and all I want to do is crawl into a hole in the ground. There’s no way I’m going to admit to either having one or not. I don’t have one, but she doesn’t need to know. And if I did confess to such a thing, there would probably be one on my doorstep in less than twenty-four hours. Or worse, she’d drag me to some sex store to shop for one personally. Nope. Thing is, I just don’t do that. Masturbate. It wasn’t that I thought there was anything wrong with it…I wasn’t brought up in a religious household and no one ever told me not to do it. And it’s not that I never have. It just not something I do. I’d tried a few times over the years, but the whole thing left me feeling so…unsatisfied.
“And you just might find true love,” Shannon interjects, maybe sensing my discomfort with Laura’s talk of…well, that. “There’s this guy I know. He’s perfect for you. I’d love to set you up.”
There it is. Again. Ever since the ink dried on the divorce decree, Shannon has been itching to play matchmaker. She used to try with Laura, but with Laura being…well, Laura, happy with her revolving door of men, Shannon realized she wouldn’t be able to find anyone to tame her. So now, all of Shannon’s focus is on me. I should be thankful she hasn’t mentioned setting me up for the past couple of months.
“Boring,” Laura groans. “Come dancing with me!”
“You guys,” I mutter, laughing at them. It would be nice to go out. To be treated nicely. Sex? It has been a dreadfully long time. “I just…I can’t. I’m not ready.”
“But,” Laura presses.
“No. Subject closed,” I insist. I watch as both Shannon and Laura quiet themselves. I have to admit it feels good to stand up for myself.
When I get home later that night, I get to work on my second job, a gig I was able to get at the community college teaching a class about interior design. As much as I love my career, design isn’t always the most regular income, at least not when the business is as new as mine. And Peter’s alimony is generous, but I would love nothing more than to be completely independent. I have a few more boards to grade before class tomorrow afternoon, and I need to review my presentation for the lesson. But as I putter around my home, I can’t help but think it would be nice if there were someone else around…to share the day, talk to…laugh with…
“Stop it, Penelope. You’re awesome on your own!” I scold myself, rather liking that I get to talk to myself out loud and no one is the wiser. It’s something I’ve found myself doing more and more often lately. Maybe I just need a cat. Or a dog?
I’m annoyed that I’ve let Shannon and Laura wiggle their suggestion of dating into my thoughts.
Yet, the very next day after Shannon and Laura offered their ‘assistance’ with finding a date for me, I was at my downtown office meeting with a vendor about marble samples. Just as he leaves, I notice the veterinarian from next door sitting out front, leaning on one of the planter walls between the sidewalk and the street, drinking a cup of coffee. For a fleeting moment, I’m taken by his good looks, his confident aura, but before I even have time to process the thought, a girl passes by, waving at him. He waves back and she turns and starts chatting him up.
I watch the interaction with a touch of jealousy. Not over the doctor, of course—he’s a jerk. But I wish I could be so bold and flirt with an attractive man.
She quickly writes something down—I assume her phone number or email—and she hands it to him with a bright smile. He returns the smile and he watches as she tosses him a flirty smile and waves, then sways her hips as she heads down the street. He watches her, but I also notice that as he’s watching her, he crumples up the paper she had handed him—the one with her number or whatever—and he stuffs it into his coffee cup.
He shakes his head then gets up and tosses the cup, with the number, into the trash, then heads inside his practice.
“Hmm,” I huff to no one. “He probably thinks he’s too good for her,” I surmise.
And then it seems everywhere I look I see couples laughing, smiling and holding hands. On campus, at any given restaurant when I’m picking up my night’s dinner, on the beach, the sidewalk in front of my office. Even my clients seem more affectionate toward each other. It is April. I guess there’s something to all those expressions about love being in the air during springtime.
At night, I miss talking to someone about the news or whatever show is on TV. And my bed? It’s never felt bigger. Or more empty.
When the next Happy Hour rolls around, I have a slightly different mindset. I’m not ready to get serious about a relationship, but I have considered that it would be nice to be involved with someone.
I almost take it as a sign when the topic isn’t even mentioned for the first half-hour. I start to think I’m free and clear of my best friends’ scrutiny over my dating life and I get another six weeks of winter before I’m thrown into the lions den of the dating world, when Laura says to me, “So…last week…I think we were talking about your sex life. Have you given it any thought?”
“Sex, no,” I lie. “Dating…a little.”
Shannon studies me, and then as if she’s read my mind, says, “Look, I know you don’t want to get hurt again, but not all the guys out there are smarmy cheaters like Peter. There are really good guys out there like Nate.”
Even though she and Nate have been married for eight years, she still gets a dreamy-eyed expression when she talks about him. As much as I loved Peter, and I thought he loved me, we were never the couple Shannon and Nate are.
“So, that guy I mentioned last week,” she continues. “His name is William. He’s fairly new to Nate’s firm. Just started about eight months ago. He is gor-geous!” Shannon continues. “He’s tall, and holy shit, built! Nate had him over for dinner a couple months ago—just a friendly thing. He was so incredibly polite and nice. Interesting. Funny. Not a player. And there’s just something about him. Something that seems so right for you. I really think you’d like him. And Nate said the same thing,” she rattles off. It’s like she’s been chomping at the bit for me to be ready to date. “Oh, and he’s British,” she adds with a wink. Shannon knows me too well. Men with accents are my weakness.
“A boring lawyer?” Laura scoffs. “Come out with me Friday night. We’ll have a few drinks. Dance.” She raises her arms and shimmies her body in her chair to music in her head. “We’ll find you a fun, hard man. Or two! Take some risks! You said it yourself, you’re looking to date, not get married.”
“I don’t know if I’m cut out for a guy I’d meet at a dance club,” I tell her. I’ve never been much for the club scene, not even in college.
“Sure you are!” Laura insists. “I’m so glad you’re thinking about it!”
“Oh. I’m not…” I start, but Laura pins me with her narrowed but still sparkly green eyes.
“Penelope. Would you only want to eat cake for dessert for the rest of your life?”
Not understanding where she’s going with this, I shake my head and answer, “No.”
“Of course not. I know you also love lemon bars.”
Just the mention of the lemon bars Laura makes in her bakery has my mouth watering uncontrollably.
“Peter was cake. Mind you, not the kind of cake I make at my shop. He was dry, flavorless, grocery-store cake. With waxy, fake buttercream frosting. But my point is, you’ve had cake for far too long. And yet, you’re looking for more cake! You need to move on to lemon bars, honey. Your lemon bar could be at the club. And maybe you’ll also find a cannoli. Or an apple galette. A macaron. Or a strudel or Danish or profiterole. Truffles. A chocolate lava cake…” She drifts off, her mind clearly on the plethora of desserts she excels at creating for her shop, Baker’s Bakery. Or maybe her thoughts have drifted to her analogy: Men of every different flavor and style. Businessmen. Adventurers. Artists and athletes. White. Black. Purple…“Maybe you’ll even find another kind of dessert,” she adds alluringly.
How Laura can turn men into desserts isn’t that much of a mystery, but that she has me considering lemon bars, or some other, maybe more extravagant dessert as my new favorite is a good tactic. It’s working. I’m actually kind of, maybe…perhaps…interested in tasting something other than ‘cake?’ And definitely not a Peter-like cake.
“You need to sample all the variety of male delights out there, woman! You don’t want to look back at your life and regret the chances you didn’t take. And you never know what you’re made of unless you try. Right now, you need to live a little! You don’t need to get yourself all mixed up with someone looking to settle down. You’ve been there, done that. You’re too young to do that again. Viva la vida!”
“Don’t feel you need to jump into the deep end,” Shannon cautions. “You could just start with a nice, successful man. With an accent. Start with just dipping your toe into the waters.”
I don’t know what to do. Both Shannon and Laura make good points. They’re my best friends, and I admire them so much. Shannon for being so sensible. And driven. Stable. Laura is completely the opposite—a dreamer. Whimsical. Sexy. Both inspire me. I trust them both implicitly. But I’m not looking to meet anyone because I’m never getting married. I like my life the way it is. And if something were to come up… Say if fate were to deliver a man to my doorstep or whatever, I might consider things differently then. Not this forced ‘going to a club’ or a ‘blind date.’
I should probably just shut all this nonsense down right now. I should probably say no to both of them. A bad blind date could damage my friendship with Shannon. I can’t imagine that any guy I meet at a club would be my type in any way, shape, or form. I mean, if something is meant to be, it’s meant to be. Others shouldn’t be putting their noses in the business. Whatever happened to fate, right?
But I know my friends. Once I said ‘maybe’ it was like throwing the barn doors wide open. I don’t think either of them will back down now.
I glance at the man in question. He smiles at me and nods his head slightly in my direction.
He’s not ugly. Quite the contrary. He’s a seriously good-looking guy. Thick, sandy-blond hair. Clean-shaven. Mysterious dark eyes. Even a nice smile. It’s just…I’m not ready for the dating world.
I sigh heavily and shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m just not ready,” I tell her.
“Penn, you’ve been divorced for a year.”
“Correction. It’s only been five months and one week since the divorce was finalized.”
It’s been eleven months since I walked in on my husband screwing his secretary. How embarrassingly cliché, right? And then shortly thereafter, I learned about the barista he was also screwing. And the text relationship he had with a ‘friend’ of his from college—a girl, turns out, he was involved with back then, even though he said he was faithful to me all four years he was away. And when I asked for a divorce, he didn’t even blink. Just an ‘Okay’ and the following weekend he moved out into a furnished apartment. A five months later, everything was settled. He didn’t argue a single request of mine. Gave me the house and everything inside of it. Gave me a generous alimony. I think the only thing that had the divorce take so long was his attorney trying to drag things out for more time on the clock.
No matter how much time has passed, the hurt feels fresh every time I think about it. Peter and I had grown up together. Gone to kindergarten together, elementary school, middle school, and high school. Because both of our last names started with a P, mine being Pierce, his Pembrooke, we were often seated right next to each other. On top of that, everyone got a kick out of the fact both our names were alliterative: Peter Pembrooke and Penelope Pierce. It seemed fated that we would get together. In our sophomore year of high school, we started dating. He was my first real boyfriend.
We went to different colleges—him in the northeast, and I stayed back in Iowa and went to State—but we saw each other at every chance we got. After college, he got a job in Connecticut and begged me to move out here with him. With my double major in Interior Design and American History, I felt like this area would be well suited for work in what I really wanted to do: historical restorations. With Connecticut being one of the first states in the country formed more than three hundred years ago, I was hopeful that there would be plenty of opportunities. So I happily packed up and moved. Within a year, I’d gotten a job as an assistant to a respected historical designer, Peter proposed, and we bought a house just before we said, ‘I do.’
I did everything for him: cooking, cleaning, running his suits to the cleaners and picking them up. I managed the household bills and the house he let me choose. And decorate. Okay, the decorating I love and wouldn’t trust anyone to do for me. Besides, it’s more or less my job now with my own interior design company, Penelope Pierce Designs—generously helped out by my former employer who has since retired. I organized our vacations. I shopped for all the holiday and birthday gifts for Peter’s large family.
But apparently, all I did for him wasn’t enough. He cheated on me. He even cheated on those girls. I try and console myself that no one would ever be enough for Peter, but I can’t help feeling if I’d done just a bit more for him, that I would have been more important to him and he wouldn’t have strayed.
Or if I’d been sexier. I mean, that was what he needed the other girls for, right? Sex. I wasn’t good enough in bed, I guess. But I was me. He never complained. Never asked me to be different. And I wouldn’t know where to begin if he’d asked me to change. I didn’t even know if I had ‘it’ in me to be sexier. Not like Laura, for sure. She exudes sexuality from her choice of clothing to the way she talks. Even the way she sips her martini has sex appeal. But that’s Laura. Not me. I’m perfectly happy with my cashmere sweaters and skirts that come down below my knees.
“Whatever. Even half a year without sex might as well be five.” Ever the drama queen, Laura punctuates her proclamation by knocking back the rest of her pale pink cosmo.
I don’t bother correcting her that it’s been longer than six months since I’ve had sex.
“Sorry I’m late,” Shannon says, sliding into a chair at our table. She looks exceptionally happy, her smile bigger than usual, and her huge doe eyes more sparkly than ever.
“No worries, babe,” Laura says, flagging down our server as she’s passing our table.
“Hey, hon,” the waitress greets. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a Jack and Ginger, without the Jack.”
The waitress wrinkles her brow at Shannon. “So…you’d like a ginger ale?”
Shannon nods at the waitress, then turns to Laura and me to find us staring at her as if she’s grown a second head.
She clears her throat and presses her lips together, fighting a grin. “Well, Nate and I are—”
Shannon doesn’t even have to finish her sentence for me to put it all together.
“Oh my God! Congratulations!” I squeal and jump out of my chair, squeezing Shannon in a hug. “How far along are you? Is that why you were ‘sick’ last week?”
“Nine weeks. Confirmed just half an hour ago.” She pulls a piece of paper from her purse—an ultrasound photo. Resting a hand on her still-flat belly, she continues, “And yeah. Last week. This little peanut is already giving me some serious morning, afternoon, and even evening sickness.”
I take my seat again and stuff down the pangs of jealousy as I study the grainy photo of a peanut shaped ‘baby.’ I’ve wanted a baby so badly. I’d even take the morning, afternoon, and evening sickness. Peter always promised that we’d get to be parents…one day, but something was always more important, and he always assured me that ‘in a few months things would be better.’ Although now, single, I’m a little grateful Peter and I never ventured down the path to parenthood.
After talking about Shannon and her husband’s excitement and discussing the baby’s due date and Shannon’s tummy woes, and another round of drinks for me and Laura, Shannon asks me, “So, what were we discussing before I rudely interrupted?”
“We were discussing the cobwebs in Penelope’s pussy,” Laura says without ceremony.
“Classy,” I mutter and shake my head. I turn to Shannon and catch her sympathetic look. “Not you, too.”
“I mean, you don’t need a man, but…”
This was not an unfamiliar discussion these past few months with Laura and Shannon. Both were excited by my divorce from Peter. Seems neither had really liked him. Of course, now, I realized they saw something untrustworthy in him that I was blind to. Having known him all my life, growing up in the same town, going to the same schools…I always just trusted him. We had a deep and emotional connection no one could touch. Or so I thought.
“I don’t know,” I answer, shaking my head. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to date. I mean the dating world is so overwhelming and scary.” I know I sound like a Wendy Whiner, but it’s true. The dating world is scary. I’d already chosen a cheating loser; what other horrible choices could I make? Another cheater? Someone with a gambling problem? Someone with a disease? Or worse. How many times have I watched the news about a missing woman, and it’s later discovered that it was the guy she was dating, or married to.
Besides. While I know what went wrong in my marriage—my lack of sexuality—I could never discuss this with even my closest friends. They don’t need to know about my sex life—or lack of one.
“I like my life right now. Why should I want it to change?” I tell Shannon and Laura in my most convincing tone, then add, “Besides, I have enough man problems right now anyway.”
“Oh?” Laura asks, eyes wide and ready for me to spill the tea.
“That obnoxious veterinarian again,” I tell them.
Three months ago, the offices next to mine were leased by a one-doctor veterinary practice. The prior business had been a sporting-equipment operation focusing more on tennis and golf but the owners, Gerry and Gwen, wanted to expand things, so they found a larger space and let their lease go. I’d hoped for another quiet business. When I’d learned it was going to become a veterinary office, I wasn’t opposed to it. I mean, cats and dogs and whatever else. Cute, right? Wrong. What I hadn’t anticipated was how thin the walls were, or how the HVAC system was set up. All day long, I hear barking and meowing. Birds squawking. Once, there was even a pig. And because of that HVAC system, sometimes the most nauseating smells would find their way into my space. From pet odors to medicinal and surgical smells.
And also, between the back doors of our offices—the doors that lead to the parking lot instead of the sidewalk and street out front—was a small patch of grass. As soon as his business started operating, I’d find piles of excrement left behind by his canine patients. I’d talked to the doctor about it a couple of times, and he said he’d do what he could, but I got the feeling he thought I was being overly dramatic.
“I think you mean the hot veterinarian,” Laura says and bites her lip. “The way he fills out his scrubs. Shouldn’t be allowed,” she says with a grunt biting down on her lower lip. “Do you think he likes it doggie style?” she asks with that snort-laugh of hers.
She wasn’t wrong. Dr. Rollinson was attractive. But a total arrogant blockhead. Which basically outweighs any of the other attractive qualities he may possess. Way too often, I’d see him running his hands over his perfectly coiffed hair—the way the ‘greasers’ in the movie Grease did—in window reflections or the mirrors in his car. God only knows how long it takes and how much product he uses to get his hair swept up into that modern pompadour style.
And his car. Okay, it’s a sexy, red Tesla coupe, but he treats the car like some kind of mid-life-crisis prized possession. I saw him grab a rag from the trunk to polish up a spot here or there. God forbid it snow or rain on his car. Those days, where bad weather was already falling or predicted, he drives, what I assume is, his “junker,” a Jeep Rubicon. And he always parks in a way that would preclude someone from parking in the spot next to his no matter which car he drove that day.
“Anyway, another one of his patients left a pile of number two on that patch of grass between our doors today.”
“Number two,” Laura says, shaking her red curls exasperatedly. “It’s called dog shit, Penn. Say it with me. Dog. Shit.”
“I don’t. Swear,” I tell her, which just makes both of my friends laugh.
“And that’s one of the many things we love about you, sweetie,” Shannon says. “But I gotta agree with Laura. He’s a fucking hot doc!”
“Whatever,” I say, shaking them off. He’s a jerk. Good-looking or not. “Anyway, my business is thriving. I don’t have to answer to anyone except my clients. I am really not interested in ever getting married again.”
“Penelope. No one is saying you should get married, least of all me,” Laura says, shivering with disgust at the mere idea. “But you’re only twenty-seven. Way too young to start hoarding cats and becoming a spinster. Just, you should have fun. Go out with some guys. Get some nice dinners. Order the lobster. Go see some Broadway shows. And scratch that itch with something other than your own hand or your B.O.B.” BOB? What is she talking about? “A battery operated boyfriend?” Laura spells out.
My mouth forms a small O, and my cheeks burn. I can’t believe that she’s having such a private discussion here in a fairly crowded bar. Well, it is Laura we’re talking about, so, yes I can.
“Don’t you have a vibrator?” she asks, seemingly shocked, and all I want to do is crawl into a hole in the ground. There’s no way I’m going to admit to either having one or not. I don’t have one, but she doesn’t need to know. And if I did confess to such a thing, there would probably be one on my doorstep in less than twenty-four hours. Or worse, she’d drag me to some sex store to shop for one personally. Nope. Thing is, I just don’t do that. Masturbate. It wasn’t that I thought there was anything wrong with it…I wasn’t brought up in a religious household and no one ever told me not to do it. And it’s not that I never have. It just not something I do. I’d tried a few times over the years, but the whole thing left me feeling so…unsatisfied.
“And you just might find true love,” Shannon interjects, maybe sensing my discomfort with Laura’s talk of…well, that. “There’s this guy I know. He’s perfect for you. I’d love to set you up.”
There it is. Again. Ever since the ink dried on the divorce decree, Shannon has been itching to play matchmaker. She used to try with Laura, but with Laura being…well, Laura, happy with her revolving door of men, Shannon realized she wouldn’t be able to find anyone to tame her. So now, all of Shannon’s focus is on me. I should be thankful she hasn’t mentioned setting me up for the past couple of months.
“Boring,” Laura groans. “Come dancing with me!”
“You guys,” I mutter, laughing at them. It would be nice to go out. To be treated nicely. Sex? It has been a dreadfully long time. “I just…I can’t. I’m not ready.”
“But,” Laura presses.
“No. Subject closed,” I insist. I watch as both Shannon and Laura quiet themselves. I have to admit it feels good to stand up for myself.
When I get home later that night, I get to work on my second job, a gig I was able to get at the community college teaching a class about interior design. As much as I love my career, design isn’t always the most regular income, at least not when the business is as new as mine. And Peter’s alimony is generous, but I would love nothing more than to be completely independent. I have a few more boards to grade before class tomorrow afternoon, and I need to review my presentation for the lesson. But as I putter around my home, I can’t help but think it would be nice if there were someone else around…to share the day, talk to…laugh with…
“Stop it, Penelope. You’re awesome on your own!” I scold myself, rather liking that I get to talk to myself out loud and no one is the wiser. It’s something I’ve found myself doing more and more often lately. Maybe I just need a cat. Or a dog?
I’m annoyed that I’ve let Shannon and Laura wiggle their suggestion of dating into my thoughts.
Yet, the very next day after Shannon and Laura offered their ‘assistance’ with finding a date for me, I was at my downtown office meeting with a vendor about marble samples. Just as he leaves, I notice the veterinarian from next door sitting out front, leaning on one of the planter walls between the sidewalk and the street, drinking a cup of coffee. For a fleeting moment, I’m taken by his good looks, his confident aura, but before I even have time to process the thought, a girl passes by, waving at him. He waves back and she turns and starts chatting him up.
I watch the interaction with a touch of jealousy. Not over the doctor, of course—he’s a jerk. But I wish I could be so bold and flirt with an attractive man.
She quickly writes something down—I assume her phone number or email—and she hands it to him with a bright smile. He returns the smile and he watches as she tosses him a flirty smile and waves, then sways her hips as she heads down the street. He watches her, but I also notice that as he’s watching her, he crumples up the paper she had handed him—the one with her number or whatever—and he stuffs it into his coffee cup.
He shakes his head then gets up and tosses the cup, with the number, into the trash, then heads inside his practice.
“Hmm,” I huff to no one. “He probably thinks he’s too good for her,” I surmise.
And then it seems everywhere I look I see couples laughing, smiling and holding hands. On campus, at any given restaurant when I’m picking up my night’s dinner, on the beach, the sidewalk in front of my office. Even my clients seem more affectionate toward each other. It is April. I guess there’s something to all those expressions about love being in the air during springtime.
At night, I miss talking to someone about the news or whatever show is on TV. And my bed? It’s never felt bigger. Or more empty.
When the next Happy Hour rolls around, I have a slightly different mindset. I’m not ready to get serious about a relationship, but I have considered that it would be nice to be involved with someone.
I almost take it as a sign when the topic isn’t even mentioned for the first half-hour. I start to think I’m free and clear of my best friends’ scrutiny over my dating life and I get another six weeks of winter before I’m thrown into the lions den of the dating world, when Laura says to me, “So…last week…I think we were talking about your sex life. Have you given it any thought?”
“Sex, no,” I lie. “Dating…a little.”
Shannon studies me, and then as if she’s read my mind, says, “Look, I know you don’t want to get hurt again, but not all the guys out there are smarmy cheaters like Peter. There are really good guys out there like Nate.”
Even though she and Nate have been married for eight years, she still gets a dreamy-eyed expression when she talks about him. As much as I loved Peter, and I thought he loved me, we were never the couple Shannon and Nate are.
“So, that guy I mentioned last week,” she continues. “His name is William. He’s fairly new to Nate’s firm. Just started about eight months ago. He is gor-geous!” Shannon continues. “He’s tall, and holy shit, built! Nate had him over for dinner a couple months ago—just a friendly thing. He was so incredibly polite and nice. Interesting. Funny. Not a player. And there’s just something about him. Something that seems so right for you. I really think you’d like him. And Nate said the same thing,” she rattles off. It’s like she’s been chomping at the bit for me to be ready to date. “Oh, and he’s British,” she adds with a wink. Shannon knows me too well. Men with accents are my weakness.
“A boring lawyer?” Laura scoffs. “Come out with me Friday night. We’ll have a few drinks. Dance.” She raises her arms and shimmies her body in her chair to music in her head. “We’ll find you a fun, hard man. Or two! Take some risks! You said it yourself, you’re looking to date, not get married.”
“I don’t know if I’m cut out for a guy I’d meet at a dance club,” I tell her. I’ve never been much for the club scene, not even in college.
“Sure you are!” Laura insists. “I’m so glad you’re thinking about it!”
“Oh. I’m not…” I start, but Laura pins me with her narrowed but still sparkly green eyes.
“Penelope. Would you only want to eat cake for dessert for the rest of your life?”
Not understanding where she’s going with this, I shake my head and answer, “No.”
“Of course not. I know you also love lemon bars.”
Just the mention of the lemon bars Laura makes in her bakery has my mouth watering uncontrollably.
“Peter was cake. Mind you, not the kind of cake I make at my shop. He was dry, flavorless, grocery-store cake. With waxy, fake buttercream frosting. But my point is, you’ve had cake for far too long. And yet, you’re looking for more cake! You need to move on to lemon bars, honey. Your lemon bar could be at the club. And maybe you’ll also find a cannoli. Or an apple galette. A macaron. Or a strudel or Danish or profiterole. Truffles. A chocolate lava cake…” She drifts off, her mind clearly on the plethora of desserts she excels at creating for her shop, Baker’s Bakery. Or maybe her thoughts have drifted to her analogy: Men of every different flavor and style. Businessmen. Adventurers. Artists and athletes. White. Black. Purple…“Maybe you’ll even find another kind of dessert,” she adds alluringly.
How Laura can turn men into desserts isn’t that much of a mystery, but that she has me considering lemon bars, or some other, maybe more extravagant dessert as my new favorite is a good tactic. It’s working. I’m actually kind of, maybe…perhaps…interested in tasting something other than ‘cake?’ And definitely not a Peter-like cake.
“You need to sample all the variety of male delights out there, woman! You don’t want to look back at your life and regret the chances you didn’t take. And you never know what you’re made of unless you try. Right now, you need to live a little! You don’t need to get yourself all mixed up with someone looking to settle down. You’ve been there, done that. You’re too young to do that again. Viva la vida!”
“Don’t feel you need to jump into the deep end,” Shannon cautions. “You could just start with a nice, successful man. With an accent. Start with just dipping your toe into the waters.”
I don’t know what to do. Both Shannon and Laura make good points. They’re my best friends, and I admire them so much. Shannon for being so sensible. And driven. Stable. Laura is completely the opposite—a dreamer. Whimsical. Sexy. Both inspire me. I trust them both implicitly. But I’m not looking to meet anyone because I’m never getting married. I like my life the way it is. And if something were to come up… Say if fate were to deliver a man to my doorstep or whatever, I might consider things differently then. Not this forced ‘going to a club’ or a ‘blind date.’
I should probably just shut all this nonsense down right now. I should probably say no to both of them. A bad blind date could damage my friendship with Shannon. I can’t imagine that any guy I meet at a club would be my type in any way, shape, or form. I mean, if something is meant to be, it’s meant to be. Others shouldn’t be putting their noses in the business. Whatever happened to fate, right?
But I know my friends. Once I said ‘maybe’ it was like throwing the barn doors wide open. I don’t think either of them will back down now.
What should Penelope do?
Go clubbing with Laura? 37.5%
Or
Go on the blind date Shannon’s offering? 62.5%
Go clubbing with Laura? 37.5%
Or
Go on the blind date Shannon’s offering? 62.5%
To keep reading with the Blind Date...CLICK HERE
|
If you wanted a different path, or just want a copy so you can just immerse yourself in the book and read ALL of the paths, click on the book cover and get to One-Clicking! 💖
|
|